Illll  III  Ml  lilHIti 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


POEMS    OF 
THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


SELECTED   AND   EDITED 

BY 

RAYMOND     MACDONALD     ALDEN 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH,  STANFORD  UNIVERSITY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1921 


Copyright,    1921,    by 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


THE  SCRIBNER  PRSS* 


^.  jrf»  \K 


CC 


1115 


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o 

OT  O  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 

g^  Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 

This  universal  English,  and  do  stand 
^  Its  breathing  book,  live  worthy  of  that  grand 

o  Heroic  utterance — parted,  yet  a  whole, 

Far,  yet  unsevered, — children  brave  and  free 

Of  the  great  Mother-tongue,  and  ye  shall  be 

Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakespeare's  soul, 

Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial  theme. 

And  rich  as  Chaucer's  speech,  and  fair  as  Spenser's  dream. 

SYDNEY   DOBELL. 


o 


122 

^  GO 


PREFACE 

The  aim  which  has  been  in  view  in  the  making  of  this  anthology  is  to 
bring  together  a  body  of  poems  sufficient  to  introduce  the  reader  to  the 
principal  types,  forms,  and  themes  of  poetry  (outside  the  drama),  and  to 
meet  all  ordinary  needs,  in  this  field,  of  younger  readers, — say  from  the 
ages  of  fifteen  to  twenty, — including  not  merely  their  more  conscientious 
reading  of  the  classics,  but  such  free  rambling  in  the  poetic  realm  as  they 
may  be  tempted  to  undertake  for  the  joy  that  is  set  before  them.  The 
chief  characteristics  of  the  collection  may  be  summarized  briefly: 

1.  Nothing  is  included  which  is  not  believed  to  make  some  natural  appeal 
to  the  ages  indicated.  Under  this  head,  however,  the  editor  has  in  a  number 
of  instances  put  his  own  judgment  in  abeyance  to  make  place  for  practically 
all  poems  which  are  on  the  list  of  recommended  readings  for  students  in 
secondary  schools. 

2.  American  and  British  poems  have  been  intermingled,  so  that — per- 
haps for  the  first  time — ^the  reader  may  obtain  a  conspectus  of  modern 
poetry  written  in  the  English  tongue  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  without 
disproportioning  emphasis  on  nationality. 

3.  No  poems  have  been  included  for  the  primary  purpose  of  illustrating 
either  the  history  of  literature  or  the  achievements  of  particular  poets ;  the 
poem  itself,  not  the  period  or  the  author,  is  the  only  unit  of  choice.  Yet, 
since  the  contents  are  printed  in  chronological  order,  those  who  seek  it  will 
find  something  like  a  historical  view  of  the  subject. 

4.  The  contents  have  been  divided  into  two  parts:  Narrative  Poems, 
and  Lyrical  and  Reflective  Poems.  The  principal  object  in  doing  this  is 
to  call  the  reader's  attention  to  the  two  chief  interests  to  which  poems 
correspond, — the  objective  or  story  interest,  and  that  concerned  with  the 
expression  of  personal  feeling  or  meditation.  Of  course  there  is  a  difficulty 
here  with  such  types  as  the  lyrical  ballad  or  the  dramatic  monologue : 
"Alexander's  Feast"  or  "Locksley  Hall"  might  quite  as  properly  fall  in 
the  first  part  as  the  second.  But  the  effort  has  been  to  represent,  in  the 
classification,  the  primary  eflFect  of  the  poem. 

5.  Notes  are  restricted  to  matters  which  require  immediate  explanation 
in  order  to  further  the  intelligent  continuous  reading  of  any  poem,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  detailed  study;  a  special  effort  has  been  made  to  furnish 
introductory  notes  indicating  what  the  reader  should  have  in  mind  in 
beginning  the  selection.  Without  disparaging  the  formal  study  of  appro- 
priate poems,  one  may  question  whether  it  should  not  be  confined  to  matters 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

with  which  the  poet  himself  would  wish  us  to  concern  ourselves.  Tennyson, 
it  will  be  recalled,  viewed  with  horror  the  effort  to  make  his  poems  a  means 
to  learning  in  the  schools. 

6.  The  collection  includes,  in  the  first  place,  the  classics  which  the  years 
have  culled  out  as  memorable  for  younger  readers  from  one  generation  to 
another,  and,  in  the  second  place,  a  selection  from  recent  poetry  almost  up 
to  the  present  hour,  (The  temptation,  however,  to  include  poems  connected 
with  the  late  war  has  been  resisted,  since  it  is  evidently  quite  too  early  to 
distingfuish  those  of  lasting  from  those  of  merely  temporary  significance.) 
For  the  former  group  the  editor  naturally  depends  for  the  most  part  on 
the  judgment  of  his  betters ;  for  the  latter  he  must  assume  a  responsibility 
which  causes  him  sometimes  to  tremble.  It  is  important  to  represent  poetry 
as  still  alive,  engaged  with  all  the  experiences  and  interests  of  contemporary 
life,  and  the  later  pages  of  this  book  will  show  how  it  has  caught  up  into 
its  vital  embrace  the  biological,  social,  and  intellectual  themes  of  the  age, 
as  well  as  the  great  physical  achievements  represented  by  the  locomotive, 
the  airplane,  the  Panama  Canal,  and  the  American  city.  But  the  reader 
must  understand  that  there  has  been  no  effort  to  make  that  selective  choice 
from  the  work  of  the  later  poets  which  the  perspective  of  time  makes  possi- 
ble for  the  older.  The  recent  poems  here  reprinted  are  chosen  each  for  its 
own  sake,  with  no  pretence  of  judging  them  to  be  the  best  of  their  author, 
or  as  likely  to  be  more  lasting  than  others  of  their  time ;  the  reason  lies  in 
some  specific  interest  of  theme,  some  hopeful  element  of  youthful  appeal, 
perhaps  only  in  some  metrical  or  other  incidental  quality  which  has  proved 
significant  either  in  the  class-room  or  in  reading  at  home.  Nothing  is  more 
certain  than  that  no  two  minds  would  make  the  same  choices,  and  presuma- 
bly no  one  but  the  editor  will  read  the  entire  contents ;  yet  it  may  be  claimed 
with  some  assurance  that  every  poem  will  be  found  worthily  significant 
on  one  or  another  ground. 

What  poetry  does  youth  actually  find  appealing?  This  query  is  likely 
to  occur  to  anyone  who  contemplates  such  a  collection  as  this,  and  to  be 
answered  in  accordance  with  memories  of  very  various  kinds.  Vividness 
and  movement  are  of  course  among  the  primary  qualities  from  this  point 
of  view,  as  (fortunately)  they  are  among  the  primary  qualities  of  poetry's 
essence.  Yet  one  is  often  astonished  to  learn  what  unexpected  sources  of 
more  reflective  interest  are  found  to  be  valid,  for  comparatively  young 
readers,  in  poems  apparently  beyond  their  natural  reach ;  of  this  "Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra"  is  now  a  standard  example.  Sometimes  a  thought  weighs  on 
the  immature  mind  which  only  the  maturest  poet  has  fully  expressed ;  some- 
times a  half -ripe  feeling  is  found  reflected  in  the  deepest  poetry,  where  the 
reader  could  not  discern  it  clearly,  much  less  define  or  explain.  Two  ele- 
ments, the  ethically  didactic  and  the  sentimental,  are  valued  much  more 
highly  by  youth  than  by  older  readers,  especially  of  our  own  time,  as  all 
teachers  are  aware.  The  compiler  of  an  anthology  will  therefore  represent 
them,  at  their  best,  more  fully  than  his  personal  taste  would  dictate.  Indeed, 
it  may  be  questioned  whether  the  normal  taste  of  young  readers  is  not 
essentially  sound  in  being  more  concerned  for  the  substantial  values  of 


PREFACE  ix 

poetry's  thought-content  than  is  approved  by  much  characteristic  criticism  of 
the  present  day. 

In  this  connection  the  editor  has  been  naturally  interested,  while  col- 
lecting his  materials,  in  fugitive  memories  of  the  literary  passions  of 
his  own  adolescence.  Some  of  these  have  found  representation  in  the  book ; 
others  he  has  scarcely  the  courage  to  justify.  Among  the  memories  are 
these :  a  devotion  to  Macaulay's  "Horatius,"  easily  explicable,  of  course,  on 
the  narrative  side,  but  including  a  boyish  ardor  for  the  very  melody  of  the 
f/pening  words,  "Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium,"  and  the  rest, — an  ardor  in  no 
wise  impaired  by  a  total  want  of  knowledge  as  to  who  Lars  Porsena  might 
have  been  or  where  Clusium  might  be  found ;  an  equally  ardent  affection 
for  Buchanan  Read's  "Drifting,"  which  was  (and  is)  so  fine  a  thing  to 
repeat  while  rowing  or  sailing  on  any  bay  or  stream ;  a  strange  fascination, 
still  hardly  analyzed,  for  Herrick's  little  lyric  on  "Julia's  Clothes,"  which 
was  selected  for  republication  in  a  certain  play-room  periodical  issued  by 
very  youthful  printers;  a  thrilling  fondness  for  Heber's  hymn,  "The  Son 
of  God  goes  forth  to  war" — in  this  instance  partly  accounted  for  by  a  boys* 
tale  of  Juliana  Ewing's,  where  it  figures  as  "the  tug-of-war  hymn" ;  a 
consciously  ethical  admiration  for  Lowell's  "The  Present  Crisis,"  and  a  con- 
sciously sentimental  appreciation  of  Longfellow's  "Maidenhood";  finally, 
and  in  a  little  later  period,  when  sunsets  and  such  things  had  become  reali- 
ties, a  capture  of  the  senses  by  Browning's  lines  telling  of  the  place  "where 
the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles."  These  fragments  of  personal 
memory  have  not  been  gathered  up  here,  of  course,  for  personal  reasons, 
but  as  fugitive  data  for  the  inductive  study  of  the  problem  of  poetry  laying 
hold  of  youth.  Happy  the  youth  for  whom  the  problem  has  been  happily 
met !  who  finds  aid  in  the  interpretation  of  his  consciousness  with  such 
understanding  as  only  poetry  can  give, — whose  impulses  toward  the  beau- 
tiful, toward  hero-worship  and  patriotism,  love  and  religion,  are  expressed 
for  him  by  the  inherited  wisdom  of  his  race  as  it  is  enshrined  in  speech  and 
song.  To  make  this  more  easy  is  the  highest  of  the  purposes  animating 
this  book. 

The  editor  is  under  great  obligation,  and  takes  this  occasion  to  express 
his  gratitude,  to  the  authors  and  publishers  who  kindly  gave  their  per- 
mission for  the  reprinting  of  the  following  poems : 

The  poems  by  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  James  Russell  Lowell, 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  Edward  Rowland  Sill,  William  Vaughn  Moody, 
and  Robert  Haven  Schauffler,  are  reprinted  by  special  arrangement  with 
the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 

The  poems  by  Rudyard  Kipling  are  reprinted  by  special  arrangement 
with  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company. 

The  poems  by  Walt  Whitman  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  Horace 
Traubel  and  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company. 

The  poems  by  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay,  Percy  Mackaye,  John  G. 
Neihardt,  James  Oppenheim,  Sara  Teasdale,  and  George  Edward  Wood- 
berry  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  authors  and  the  Macmillan  Com- 


X  PREFACE 

pany;  those  by  Madison  Cawein  by  permission  of  the  author's  executors 
and  the  Macmillan  Company, 

The  poems  by  Alfred  Noyes  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author 
and  the  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 

The  poems  by  Wendell  Phillips  Stafford  and  O.  W.  Firkins  are  re- 
printed by  permission  of  the  authors  and  the  Atlantic  Monthly  Company. 

The  poems  by  Abbie  Farwell  Brown  (from  "Songs  of  Sixpence"), 
William  Herbert  Carruth  (from  "Each  in  his  Own  Tongue,  and  Other 
Poems"),  Florence  Earle  Coates,  Helen  Gray  Cone,  Washington  Gladden, 
Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.  (from  "The  Rose-Jar"),  David  Starr  Jordan, 
Benjamin  R.  C.  Low  (from  "The  House  that  Was"),  Edwin  Markham, 
John  Masefield,  Harold  T.  Pulsifer  (from  "Mothers  and  Men"),  Charles 
M.  Sheldon,  Lewis  Worthington  Smith,  Will  Henry  Thompson,  and 
Katharine  Tynan,  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  their  authors. 

The  poems  by  Bliss  Carman  and  Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson  are  re- 
printed by  permission  of  their  authors  and  Small,  Maynard  and  Company. 

The  poems  by  John  B.  Tabb,  and  Richard  Hovey's  "Comrades"  and 
"At  the  End  of  the  Day,"  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  Small,  Maynard 
and  Company;  Richard  Hovey's  "Unmanifest  Destiny"  is  reprinted  by 
permission  of  Duffield  and  Company. 

The  poems  by  Emily  Dickinson  and  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  are  reprinted 
by  permission  of  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 

"A  Song  of  Today,"  by  Mary  A.  Lathbury,  is  reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  Chautauqua  Institution. 

"After  Construing,"  by  Arthur  Christopher  Benson,  is  reprinted  by 
permission  of  the  author  and  the  John  Lane  Company. 

"When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In,"  by  Guy  Wetmore  Carry!,  is 
reprinted  by  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

"A  Little  Song  of  Life,"  by  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese,  is  reprinted  by 
permission  of  Thomas  Bird  Mosher. 

"Trees,"  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  and  "The  Sacrament  of  Fire,"  by  John 
Oxenham  (from  "The  Fiery  Cross"),  are  reprinted  by  permission  of  the 
George  H.  Doran  Company. 

"The  Listeners"  and  "Nod  "  by  Walter  de  la  Mare  are  reprinted  by  permission 
of  Henry  Holt  and  Company. 

"The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,"  "Father  Gilligan"  and  the  "Ballad  of  Moll 
Magee"  (from  "Poetical  Works")  by  W.  B.  Yeats,  by  special  permission  of  the 
author  and  the  Macmillan  Company. 

Finally,  grateful  acknowledgement  is  made  of  the  assistance  rendered  by 
the  editor's  sometime  colleague,  Mr.  Frank  Ernest  Hill,  who  not  only  made 
for  this  volume  the  paraphrase  of  Chaucer's  "Pardoner's  Tale,"  but  supplied 
a  great  numl^er  of  the  explanatory  notes  for  the  poems  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries. 

R.  Ms  A. 

Stanford  University,  California, 
March,  192 1. 


CONTENTS 

PART    ONE 
NARRATIVE   POEMS 

PAGE 

1.  The    Pardoner's   Tale    Geoffrey  Chaucer   i 

2.  Sir    Patrick    Spence     4 

3.  Johnnie    Cock    5 

4.  Kinmont  Willie    6 

5.  The   Twa   Sisters    8 

6.  Agincourt    IVilliam  Shakespeare   9 

7.  Agincourt     Michael  Drayton  ■ 11 

8.  Nyraphidia :  the  Court  of  Faery   Michael  Drayton   12 

9.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  Alexander   Pope    17 

10.  The  Painter  who  Pleased   Nobody    John   Gay   29 

11.  The  Peacock,  the  Turkey,  and  the  Goose. . .  .John   Gay   29 

12.  Boadicea   IVilliam  Coix>per   3° 

13.  Tam  O'Shanter Robert  Burns 3 ^ 

14.  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner   Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge   33 

15.  Simon   Lee    William  IVordsiuorth  41 

16.  Bishop  Hatto Robert  Southey  42 

17.  Lucy    Gray    IVilliam  JVordsworth  43 

18.  Michael IVilliam  Wordsivortli  43 

19.  Lochinvar   Walter  Scott  5° 

20.  Marraion   and   Douglas    Walter  Scott  5^ 

21.  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic Thomas  Campbell 52 

22.  The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib  Lord  Byron  53 

23.  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon   Lord  Byron  53 

24.  Christabel  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge   57 

25.  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore   Charles  Wolfe   60 

26.  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci   John  Keats    61 

27.  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  John  Keats    62 

28.  The  Red  Fisherman   Winthrop  Mackivorth  Praed   ....  67 

29.  The  Belle  of  the  Bail-Room   Winthrop  Mackivorth  Praed  ....  70 

30.  Bonny  Dundee    Walter   Scott    72 

31.  The   Silent  Tower  of  Bottreau   Robert  Stephen  Haivker   73 

32.  The  Lady  of  Shalott Alfred    Tennyson    74 

33.  The    Last   Buccaneer    Thomas  Babington  Macaulay   ...  76 

34.  The  Jackdaw  of  Rheims  Richard  Harris  Barham    76 

35.  The  Skeleton  in  Armor   Henry  Wadsiuorth  Longfellow  .  .  78 

36.  Horatius   Thomas  Babington  Macaulay   ...  80 

37.  My   Last   Duchess    Robert   Broivning    86 

38.  The   Shepherd  of  King  Admetus   James  Russell  Loivell 87 

39.  Rhoecus     James  Russell  Lowell 87 

40.  Abou  Ben  Adhem Leigh    Hunt    89 

41.  Rime  of  the  Duchess  May Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning    ....  90 

42.  How  They  Brought  the  Good  News   Robert   Browning    96 

43.  The  Boy  and  the  Angel  Robert   Browning    97 

44.  Incident  of  the  French  Camp   Robert  Browning  98 

45.  The   Italian  in  England    Robert  Browning  98 

46.  The  Raven    Edgar  Allan  Poe   100 


xii  CONTENTS 


47.  Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon   fValUr  Savage  Landor   103 

48.  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert   Henry  Wadsiaorth  Longfelloiu  . .   104 

49.  The  Forsaken  Merman   Mattheiv  Arnold   104 

50.  Sohrab    and    Rustum    Mattheio  Arnold   106 

51.  The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade   Alfred  Tennyson  119 

52.  Instans  Tyrannus Robert  Browning  120 

53.  Ballad  of  Sir  John  Franklin    George  Henry  Boker   I2i 

54.  Skipper   Ireson's   Ride    John  Greenleaj  fVhittier 123 

55.  King    Solomon    Oiven  Meredith  (Lord  Lytton)    . .    124 

56.  King  Robert  of  Sicily Henry  fVadsiuorth  Longfelloiv  . .   125 

57.  The  Courtin'   James  Russell  Loivell 128 

58.  The  Lady  of  the  Land    William    Morris    130 

59.  Gareth    and    Lynette    Alfred  Tennyson  137 

60.  Lancelot   and    Elaine    Alfred  Tennyson  160 

61.  The   Passing  of   Arthur    Alfred  Tennyson  181 

62.  Herve   Riel    Robert  Broiuning  189 

63.  The   Revenge    Alfred  Tennyson  191 

64.  A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet  Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfelloiu  . .   193 

65.  Pheidippides    Robert  Browning 194 

66.  The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade  Alfred  Tennyson  196 

67.  The  White   Ship    Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti   197 

68.  The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot   Robert  Buchanan 201 

69.  The  Slaying  of  Urgan  Algernon  Charles  Sivinburne   . . ,  204 

70.  Opportunity    Edivard  Rowland  Sill 205 

71.  The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg fVill  Henry   Thompson   206 

72.  A  Ballad  of  East  and  West   Rudyard  Kipling   207 

73.  The   Ballad   of   Moll   Magee    William  Butler  Yeats 209 

74.  The  Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan   William  Butler  Yeats 209 

75.  Elfin    Skates    Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 210 

76.  The  Death  of  Puck   Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 210 

77.  The   Last   Chantey    Rudyard   Kipling    211 

78.  Craven    Henry  Newbolt   212 

79.  Gillespie     Henry  Nenvbolt    213 

80.  Forty  Singing  Seamen   Alfred  Noyes   214 

81.  The  Listeners   Walter  de  la  Mare  215 

82.  The  Dauber  Rounds  Cape   Horn   John    Masefield    216 

83.  The  Star Sara   Teasdale   218 

84.  The  Finding  of  Jamie   John  G.  Neihardt  219 

PART   TWO 
LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 

85.  Heart-Exchange    Sir  Philip  Sidney   227 

86.  Who  is  Sylvia  ?    William  Shakespeare   227 

87.  O  Sweet  Content   Thomas  Dekker  227 

88.  Blow,  Blow,  thou   Winter   Wind    William  Shakespeare   227 

89.  Under    the    Greenwood   Tree    William  Shakespeare   228 

90.  O  Mistress  Mine   William  Shakespeare   228 

91.  Hark,  Hark !  the  Lark   William  Shakespeare   228 

Sonnets:    William  Shakespeare  228 

92.  When    in    disgrace    with    Fortune    and 


men  8   eyes 


228 


93.  When   to    the    sessions    of   sweet    silent 

thought 229 

94.  That   time   of  year   thou   may'st   in   me 

behold  229 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PACK 

95.  But  be  contented :  when  that  fell  arrest 229 

96.  When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted   time 229 

97.  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 230 

98.  Character  of  a  Happy  Life    Sir  Henry  IVotton  230 

99.  It  is  not   Growing  Like   a   Tree    Ben  Jonson   230 

00.  To   Celia    Ben  Jonjon   230 

01.  Sonnet  (Since  there's  no  help)   Michael  Drayton  231 

02.  The    Crier    Michael  Drayton   23 1 

03.  Virtue    George  Herbert  231 

04.  Love George  Herbert  23 1 

05.  The  Pulley George  Herbert  232 

06.  L'AUegro    John  Milton   232 

07.  II   Penseroso    John  Milton   234 

08.  Death John  Donne    236 

09.  Lycidas    John  Milton    236 

10.  Song  (Why  so  pale  and  wan ?) Sir  John  Suckling   240 

11.  On    his    being    Arrived    to    the    Age    of 

Twenty-three    John  Milton   240 

12.  The  Holy  Nativity    Richard  Crasha<w   240 

13.  Corinna's   Going   a-Maying    Robert   Herrick    241 

14.  A  Thanksgiving  to  God  for  his  House   Robert  Herrick 242 

15.  On  Julia's   Clothes    Robert  Herrick 242 

16.  To    Daffodils    Robert  Herrick 242 

17.  A  Christmas  Carol   Robert  Herrick    243 

18.  To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars Richard  Lovelace 243 

19.  To  Althea   from   Prison    Richard  Lovelace 243 

20.  Song  (The  glories  of  our  blood)    James   Shirley    244 

21.  On   his   Blindness    John  Milton   244 

22.  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687  John  Dryden    244 

23.  Alexander's  Feast John  Dryden 245 

24.  The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High   Joseph  Addison   247 

25.  Rule  Britannia    James  Thomson  247 

26.  Ode  written  in  1746   IVilliam  Collins   248 

27.  Ode   to   Evening    IVilliam  Collins   248 

28.  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard Thomas  Gray 249 

29.  The  Deserted  Village   Oliver   Goldsmith    251 

30.  The  Jackdaw    IVilliam  Coiufer  258 

31.  To  a  Louse    Robert  Burns   258 

32.  To  a   Mouse    Robert  Burns   259 

33.  Scots   wha    Hae    Robert  Burns    260 

34.  The  Tiger   IVilliam  Blake   260 

35.  A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That   Robert  Burns    260 

36.  Lines  Written   in  Early   Spring    IVilliam  fVordsivorth 261 

37.  The  Old   Familiar   Faces    Charles  Lamb 261 

38.  Highland    Mary     Robert  Burns    262 

39.  Three  Years  she  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower. .  IVilliam  tVordsiuorth 262 

40.  She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways IVilliam  fVordsivorth 263 

41.  My  Heart  Leaps  Up  when  I  behold  fVilliam  fVordsvjorth 263 

42.  The    Solitary    Reaper    fVilliam  fVordsivorth  263 

43.  She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight   fVilliam  fVordsivorth 263 

44.  I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud   fVilliam  fVordsivorth  264 

45.  Ode    to    Duty    fVilliam  fVordsivorth  264 

46.  To  a  Sky-Lark   fVilliam  fVordsivorth  265 

47.  Ode    (Intimations  of  Immortality)    fVilliam  fVordsivorth   265 

Sonnets : fVilliam  fVordsivorth  268 

48.  Composed   upon   Westminster   Bridge    268 

49.  London,    1802    , , , 268 


xiv  CONTENTS 


50.  Written  in  London,  September,  1802  269 

51.  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of   269 

52.  The   world  is  too  much  with  us    269 

53.  Ye   Mariners  of  England   Thomas  Campbell 269 

54.  She  Walks  in  Beauty   Lord  Byron   270 

55.  Kubla   Khan    Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge   270 

56.  On   First  Looking  into   Chapman's   Homer... Jo A«  Keats    271 

57.  On   the   Grasshopper   and   Cricket    John  Keats    271 

58.  To  the   Grasshopper   and   the   Cricket   Leigh  Hunt 272 

59.  Thanatopsis  William  Cullen  Bryant  272 

60.  To  a  Waterfowl   JVilliam  Cullen  Bryant   273 

61.  Proud   Maisie    Sir  IValter  Scott   274 

62.  Ozymandias     Percy  Bysshe   Shelley    274 

63.  The  American  Flag Joseph  Rodman  Drake    274 

64.  Ode  to  a  Nightingale    John  Keats   275 

65.  Ode    on    a    Grecian    Urn    John  Keats 276 

66.  To  Autumn   John  Keats   277 

67.  Ode  to  the  West  Wind    Percy  Bysshe  Shelley   278 

68.  The  Cloud Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  279 

69.  To  a   Skylark   Percy  Bysshe  Shelley   280 

70.  A  Dirge    Percy  Bysshe  Shelley   281 

71.  A  Forest  Hymn William   Cullen  Bryant  282 

72.  A  Health   Edivard  Coate  Pinkney  283 

73.  The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers   Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans  284 

74.  The  Son  of  God  Goes  Forth  to  War Reginald  Heber  284 

75.  Old   Ironsides   Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 285 

76.  The  Last  Leaf   Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 285 

77.  Forefathers'   Hymn    Leonard  Bacon  285 

78.  Concord  Hymn   Ralph  Waldo  Emerson   286 

79.  A   Psalm   of  Life    Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfellow  ..  286 

80.  The  Humble-Bee   Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 286 

81.  The  Rhodora Ralph   Waldo  Emerson    287 

82.  The   Snow-Storm    Ralph  Waldo  Emerson    287 

83.  Maidenhood  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellovj  . .  288 

84.  The  Year's  at  the  Spring  Robert  Browning   288 

85.  Marching  Along Robert  Browning 289 

86.  Break,  Break,  Break  Alfred  Tennyson  289 

87.  Locksley  Hall    Alfred  Tennyson  290 

88.  Ulysses    Alfred  Tennyson  295 

89.  Sir   Galahad    Alfred  Tennyson  296 

90.  The  Song  of  the  Shirt  Thomas  Hood    297 

91.  The  Cry  of  the  Children   Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 298 

92.  Rondeau    Leigh  Hunt   300 

93.  The  Present  Crisis   James  Russell  Lowell 301 

94.  The  Arsenal   at  Springfield    Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow   ..   303 

95.  To   the    Dandelion    James  Russell  Lowell 303 

96.  The   Old   Clock  on  the   Stairs    Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow   ..   304 

97.  Home-Thoughts   from    Abroad    Robert  Browning 305 

98.  Home-Thoughts  from  the  Sea   Robert   Browning    305 

99.  Shakespeare   Matthew  Arnold  306 

200.  Annabel  Lee    Edgar  Allan  Poe    306 

201.  The  Fairies  William    Allingham    306 

202.  Song  (Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crow)    Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes   307 

203.  Sweet   and  Low    Alfred    Tennyson    307 

204.  The    Splendor   Falls    Alfred  Tennyson  308 

In   Memoriam  A.   H.   H Alfred    Tennyson    308 

205.  Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love   308 


CONTENTS  XV 

PAGB 

206.  O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good    308 

207.  Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sk}'   309 

208.  Contemplate   all  this  work  of  Time    309 

209.  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  .Alfred    Tennyson    309 

210.  Self-Dependence   Mattheiv  Arnold   313 

211.  Ode   to  the   North-East  Wind    Charles   Kingsley    313 

212.  Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud   Alfred  Tennyson  314 

213.  Evelyn  Hope   Robert  Broivning    315 

214.  The  Patriot   Robert  Broivninff 316 

215.  "De   Gustibus"    Robert  Broixining 316 

216.  Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the  City   Robert   Browning    317 

217.  Love   Among   the   Ruins    Robert  Broiuning  318 

218.  America    Sydney  Dobell 319 

219.  There  was  a  Child  Went  Forth   Walt    Whitman    320 

220.  The    Grass    Walt   Whitman    321 

221.  My  Lost  Youth  Henry  Wadsivortk  Longfellow   . .  322 

222.  Robert  of  Lincoln    William  Cullen  Bryant  323 

223.  The  Barefoot  Boy John  Greenleaf  Whittier 325 

224.  A    Farewell     Charles  Kingsley  325 

225.  Days    Ralph  Waldo  Emerson   325 

226.  The    Chambered    Nautilus    Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 325 

227.  The  Living  Temple    Oliver  Wendell  Holmes    326 

228.  A  Sun-Day  Hymn   Oliver  Wendell  Holmes   326 

229.  Drifting    Thomas  Buchanan  Read 327 

230.  Our    Country Julia  Ward  Howe 328 

231.  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic   Julia  Ward  Howe 328 

232.  Dirge  for   a   Soldier   George  Henry  Boker  329 

233.  Say  Not  the  Struggle  Nought  Availeth   Arthur  Hugh  Clough  329 

234.  Up-Hill   Christina  Rossetti   329 

235.  Song   (When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest)    Christina  Rossetti   329 

236.  Young  and  Old    Charles  Kingsley 330 

237.  Songs  of  Seven  Jean  Ingelow   330 

238.  Boston   Hymn    Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 331 

239.  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra   Robert  Browning 332 

240.  Prospice    Robert  Browning 335 

241.  O  Captain !   my  Captain !    Walt   Whitman    335 

242.  Ode   Recited    at   the    Harvard    Commem- 

oration     James  Russell  Lowell 336 

243.  A   Match    Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 341 

244.  Rugby    Chapel    Matthew  Arnold  342 

245.  East    London     Matthew  Arnold  344 

246.  The  Eternal  Goodness   John  Greenleaf  Whittier 344 

247.  The  Steam  Threshing  Machine   Charles    Tennyson-Turner    344 

248.  Aladdin James  Russell  Lowell 345 

249.  Lost  Days Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti   345 

250.  Lovesight    Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti   345 

251.  In    School-Days    John  Greenleaf  Whittier 345 

252.  St.   John    Baptist    Arthur    O'Shaughnessy    346 

253.  Dorothy   Q Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 346 

254.  My   Strawberry    Helen  Hunt  Jackson  347 

255.  Songs  of  Palms Arthur    O'Shaughnessy    348 

256.  Ode   (We  are  the  music-makers)    Arthur    O'Shaughnessy    348 

257.  The   Reason  Why    Frederick  Locker-Lampson   349 

258.  Nature     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow   . .  349 

259.  A  Late  Lark  Twitters    William  Ernest  Henley   349 

260.  To  the   Man-of-War  Bird    Walt   Whitman    350 

261.  A  Ballade  of 'Dreamland    Algernon  Charles  Swinburne    ...  350 


xvi  CONTENTS 


262.  When  I  Saw  Toa  Last,  Rose   Austin  Dobson  35» 

263.  The    Toys    Coventry  Patmore   351 

264.  Winter   in   Northumberland    Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  ....    351 

265.  Ballade   of  Dead   Cities    Edmund  Gosse  353 

266.  Ultima  Veritas   IVashington  Gladden  353 

267.  The  Marshes  of  Glynn Sidney  Lanier 354. 

268.  London   Snow   Robert  Bridges  356 

269.  O  Youth  whose   Hope   is   High    Robert  Bridges  356 

270.  A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master   Sidney   Lanier    357 

271.  A   Song  of  To-Day    Mary  A.  Lathbury 357 

272.  "Hollow-Sounding   and   Mysterious"    Christina  Rossetti   357 

273.  The    Way    to    Arcady    Henry  Cuyler  Bunner   358 

274.  The   Milkmaid    Austin  Dobson   359 

275.  Ballade  of  June   tVilliam  Ernest  Henley  359 

276.  Requiem    Robert  Louis  Stevenson    359 

277.  March   Algernon  Charles  Sivinburne  ....   360 

278.  England,   Queen  of  the   Waves    Algernon  Charles  S<winburne  ....   361 

279.  By  an  Evolutionist   Alfred  Tennyson  361 

280.  Epilogue    Robert   Broivning    362 

281.  Crossing   the   Bar    Alfred  Tennyson  36a 

282.  When  Burbage  Played  Austin  Dobson   363 

283.  If    Emily  Dickinson   363 

284.  A  Day Emily  Dickinson    363 

285.  I   Never   Saw   a   Moor    Emily  Dickinson    363 

286.  The   Railway   Train    Emily  Dickinson    363 

287.  The  Robin   Emily   Dickinson    364 

288.  Who  Robbed   the   Woods?   Emily  Dickinson    364 

289.  Two  Voyagers   Emily   Dickinson    364 

290.  The  English  Flag   Rudyard  Kipling 364 

291.  Fresh   from   his   Fastnesses    William  Ernest  Henley  366 

292.  Unguarded   Gates    Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  366 

293.  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree   William  Butler  Yeats 367 

294.  The    Redbird    Madison  Ca<wein  367 

295.  "A  Man  Must  Live"   Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson  367 

296.  History    William   Watson   367 

297.  School-Days  Robert  Bridges    368 

298.  Comrades    Richard  Hovey    368 

299.  The  Marching  Morrows   Bliss    Carman    36S 

300.  A  More  Ancient  Mariner  Bliss  Carman  369 

301.  The   Butterfly   John  B.  Tabb  369 

302.  The  Brook  John  B.  Tabb  370 

303.  The  Water-Lily   John  B.  Tabb  370 

304.  Phantoms     John  B.  Tabb 370 

305.  The  Dandelion   John  B.  Tabb  370 

306.  Easter    John  B.  Tabb  370 

307.  Daisy     Francis   Thompson   370 

308.  The  Joy  of  the  Hills Edwin  Markham  371 

309.  An  Angler's  Wish    Henry  van  Dyke  371 

310.  After  Construing  Arthur  Christopher  Benson   37a 

311.  Each  in  his  Own  Tongue  William  Herbert  Carruth  37a 

312.  Evensong    Robert  Louis  Stevenson   373 

313.  To  an  Athlete  Dying  Young  A.  E.  Housman   373 

314.  Lad,  Have  You  Things  to  Do?   A.  E.  Housman   373 

315.  At  the  End  of  the  Day   Richard  Hovey  ...  374 

316.  Guilielraus  Rex  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich      .  374 

317.  America    and    England    George  Edward  Woodberry  .    .    .   374 

318.  The  Secret  George  Edward  Woodberry  ...    .   375 


CONTENTS  xvii 


319.  Drake's  Drum   Henry  Neivbolt    375 

320.  Altruism    David  Starr  Jordan   375 

321.  Recessional Rudyard    Kipling    376 

322.  When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In  Guy   IVetmore   Carryl   376 

323.  Unmanifest    Destiny    Richard   Hovey    377 

324.  Two  Taverns   Edivin    Markham    378 

325.  Prelude    Madison  Ca<wein   378 

326.  Gloucester    Moors    ff^illiam    Vaughn   Moody    378 

327.  The    Menagerie    IVilliam  Vaughn  Moody   379 

328.  Sea    Fever    John  Mase field 381 

329.  Kew  in   Lilac-Time    Alfred  Noyes   381 

330.  In  the  Cool  of  the  Evening   Alfred  Noyes    382 

331.  Sometimes     Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 382 

332.  To   a   Greek   Bootblack    O.   fV.  Firkins    382 

333.  Mimma  Bella    Eugene  Lee-Hamilton    383 

334.  A  Little   Song  of  Life    Lizette  JVoodivorth  Reese   383 

335.  Saturday   Night    James  Oppenheim    383 

336.  Comrades    George  Edivard  fVoodberry 384 

337.  The  Conquest  of  the  Air  Harold  T.  Pulsifer  385 

338.  The   Unconquered  Air   Florence  Earle  Coates    385 

339.  "Scum  o'  the  Earth"   Robert  Haven  Schauffler   386 

340.  The   Merry-Go-Round    Margaret  L.  IVoods   387 

341.  Jesus  the   Carpenter    Charles  M.  Sheldon   388 

342.  The  Mother Katharine    Tynan    389 

343.  The   Making  of  Birds    Katharine    Tynan    389 

344.  The    Poor-House    Sara   Teasdale    389 

345.  The   Heritage    Abbie  Fariuell  Brozvn   390 

346.  The   Building   of   Springfield    Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay 390 

347.  Panama   Hymn    IVendell  Phillips  Stafford 391 

348.  Goethals   Percy   Mackaye    391 

349.  Invocation    IVendell  Phillips  Stafford 392 

3  50.  The    Gaoler    Helen  Gray  Cone  392 

351.  Trees Joyce  Kilmer    393 

352.  The  Look   Sara   Teasdale   393 

353.  Milk  for  the  Cat   Harold  Monro    393 

354.  The  Little  Boy  and  the  Locomotive Benjamin  R.  C.  Loiv    393 

355.  The   House   of   Christmas    Gilbert  K.  Chesterton    394 

356.  The   English  Tongue    Leivis   Worthington  Smith    394 

357.  Nod    Walter  de  la  Mare    395 

358.  The  Sacrament  of  Fire    John    Oxenham    395 

359.  The  Dawn  of  Peace    Alfred  Noyes   396 


ABOUT   POETRY 


Poetry  might  be  called  the  art  of  recording  experiences  which  are  agree- 
ably exciting,  in  such  a  way  that  others  may  share  them  and  be  keyed  up 
to  a  somewhat  similar  excitement.  The  experiences  may  be  those  either  of 
the  outer  life  or  of  the  mind  and  heart ;  and  in  themselves  they  may  some- 
times seem  to  be  painful  rather  than  agreeable,  yet  always  with  some  power 
to  call  up  pleasurable  feelings  of  one  kind  or  another.  Prose  literature  may 
do  the  same  thing  for  us,  but  not  so  often  or  so  powerfully.  It  may  also 
be  done  by  mere  conversation,  but  we  do  not  call  this  an  art,  because  it  is 
usually  put  together  in  a  careless,  temporary  way,  and  not  intended  to  give 
pleasure  to  anyone  after  the  moment  of  immediate  utterance  is  past.  There 
is  something  about  poetry,  too  (or  any  art),  which  is  less  narrowly  personal 
than  common  talk,  and  which  therefore  can  express  one's  feelings  without 
attracting  undue  attention  to  one's  self.  Few  of  us  are  willing,  for  exam- 
ple, to  exclaim  in  a  company  of  friends,  "Oh,  how  I  love  my  country !"  or 
to  tell  that  we  should  be  glad  to  give  our  lives  for  a  great  cause, — not  because 
we  do  not  wish  to  have  it  known  that  we  have  these  feelings,  but  because 
we  do  not  care  to  make  our  personal  emotions  conspicuous.  But  we  are 
willing  to  join  with  others,  on  some  patriotic  occasion,  in  singing  "My  coun- 
try, 'tis  of  thee,"  or 

"As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free"; 

and  at  such  a  time  we  feel  that  all  the  others  share  in  the  same  high  feelings 
that  we  have. 

This  example  also  helps  one  to  see  why  poetry  is  associated  with  music 
in  being  rhythmical.  There  is  something  about  regular  rhythm  appropriate 
to  the  expression  of  feeling  which  is  deep  or  lasting  enough  to  be  remem- 
bered and  shared  with  others.  It  is  easier  and  more  natural  to  sing  one's 
feelings  than  to  talk  them ;  and  it  is  more  agreeable  to  join  in  rhythmic 
movement,  like  marching  in  a  procession,  when  some  occasion  calls  for 
emotional  expression,  than  to  walk  about  at  one's  ordinary  gait.  Hence 
our  liking  for  marching  and  rhythmic  yelling  after  a  football  victory  or  good 
news  in  war-time.  Even  when  the  feeling  is  more  personal,  and  not  of  a 
character  to  be  shared  by  the  whole  community,  the  same  thing  is  true :  if 
we  have  undergone  a  sorrow,  a  sad  song  seems  to  take  up  our  feeling  and 
express  it  in  a  way  that  relieves  and  comforts  us;  or  if  a  spring  morning 
is  so  fine  that  we  feel  bursting  with  the  joy  of  the  season,  a  fast  rhythmic 
walk,  with  a  merry  tune  whistled  as  we  go,  supplies  our  need  in  the  same 
way.  By  a  similar  process  the  poet  sets  his  feeling  to  rhythm,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  expresses  it  in  words.    He  says  to  us,  in  effect :  "Come,  get  in 

xix 


XX  ABOUT    POETRY 

step  with  me,  and  share  my  experience  while  we  move  together  through 
these  verses.  At  the  end  you  will  feel  that  it  has  been  worth  while."  Every 
poem,  then,  has  a  movement  to  which  it  is  supposed  to  go ;  and  we  should 
always,  in  beginning  to  read  it,  first  feel  for  the  rhythm  and  start  into  it 
with  the  right  swing,  as  if  we  were  joining  in  a  procession  or  a  dance  which 
someone  else  had  started.  Perhaps  we  may  have  to  run  once  through  the 
poem  for  this  purpose,  too  fast  to  see  what  it  is  really  about ;  then,  after  we 
have  caught  the  rhythmic  movement,  we  can  go  back  and  pick  up  the  ideas 
more  carefully. 

Besides  using  rhythm  as  a  means  of  getting  us  to  share  their  feelings, 
poets  make  an  especially  stimulating  use  of  the  imagination.  This  is  the 
faculty  which  brings  up  mental  pictures  of  sights  which  we  are  not  actually 
seeing,  and  corresponding  sensations — in  the  mind,  not  the  body — of  sound, 
touch,  odor,  and  taste.  A  vivid  sensation  of  this  sort,  besides  being  often 
very  pleasant  in  itself,  has  been  found  to  be  the  most  direct  and  agreeable 
way  of  exciting  the  feelings;  therefore  the  poets,  though  without  having 
any  exclusive  right  to  the  process,  make  constant  use  of  this  image-making 
power.  Sometimes  the  poet  chooses  a  word  or  phrase  because  he  wishes 
the  reader's  imagination  to  bring  up  a  sight  which  he  (the  poet)  has  seen, 
with  the  corresponding  feeling  that  it  stirred  up ;  as  when  Wordsworth 
(No.  144*)  describes  a  field  of  wild-flowers  as  "a  host  of  golden  daffodils" 
fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze,  in  order  to  communicate  the  joy  which 
he  had  in  the  experience.  Sometimes  he  brings  up  a  sight  which  he  has 
never  actually  seen,  but  has  found  pleasure  in  imagining;  as  when  Arnold 
(No.  49)  describes  the  region  under  the  sea. 

Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by. 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world,  for  ever  and  aye. 

Sometimes,  again,  he  uses  an  image  to  represent  a  sight  or  sound  not  so 
much  for  its  own  sake  as  for  the  sake  of  some  idea  which  it  will  bring  up 
indirectly.  Thus  Wordsworth  (No.  149)  imagines  himself  as  speaking  to 
the  poet  Milton,  and  saying,  "Thy  soul  was  like  a  star;"  and  Tennyson 
(No.  281)  describes  a  boat  setting  out  to  sea  in  a  calm  sunset,  when  we 
know  that  he  wishes  to  call  up  the  thoughts  and  feelings  connected  with  a 
soul  passing  peacefully  through  the  experience  of  death.f     This  kind  of 

*  See  the  Table  of  Contents  for  the  numbers  of  the  poems  referred  to. 

t  These  examples  make  it  clear  why  the  poets  are  disposed  to  make  large  use  of 
"figures  of  speech."  Some  of  these  figures  are  the  most  natural  means  of  suggesting 
a  strong  feeling  in  terms  of  a  vivid  image.  Milton,  of  course,  was  not  at  all  "like 
a  star"  from  most  points  of  view ;  but  the  feeling  which  Wordsworth  had  for  him 
is  shown  by  his  seeing  a  resemblance  between  the  soul  of  Milton  and  a  star  in  at 
least  one  aspect.  Sucli  a  statement  of  likeness  we  call  a  simile.  If  the  Hkeness  is 
not  expressly  stated,  hut  assumed,  we  call  the  figure  a  metaphor;  as  when  Words- 
worth (in  No.  147)  calls  the  unseen  spirit-world  "that  immortal  sea  which  brought 
us  hither."  If  the  likeness  is  expressed  by  representing  an  object  or  quality  as  a 
living  person,  we  call  the  figure  personification  (see  the  "Ode  to  Duty."  No.  145, 
where  the  whole  poem  is  developed  by  means  of  an  image  of  this  kind).  The  general 
poetic  purpose  of  all  these  figures  is  evidently  the  same. 


ABOUT    POETRY  xxi 

imagery  is  sometimes  called  interpretative,  because  it  is  due  to  the  use 
of  the  imagination  as  a  means  of  interpreting  something  deeper  than 
what  stands  on  the  surface  of  the  poem.  Poetry  which  is  concerned  chiefly 
with  the  simpler  kinds  of  imagery — those  that  exist  for  the  sake  of  beau- 
tiful sights  and  sounds,  interesting  actions,  and  the  like,  just  in  themselves 
— has  the  giving  of  pleasure  for  its  only  purpose ;  the  poet  merely  wants 
others  to  share  some  joy  that  he  has  experienced.  That  of  the  deeper 
sort,  where  the  imagery  interprets  ideas,  may  also  give  much  pleasure,  but* 
it  has  the  further  purpose  of  adding  to  our  thoughtful  understanding  of  life; 
and  it  may  take  some  little  study  to  get  out  of  it  the  thinking  which  the 
poet  has  put  into  it. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  writer  of  a  poem  is  absolutely  dependent 
upon  the  reader's  imagination  to  accomplish  what  he  tries  to  do.  He  is  also 
dependent  upon  the  reader's  acquaintance  with  the  words  used,  so  that  they 
may  serve  the  intended  purpose.  Keats  (in  No.  27)  speaks  of  the  moon- 
light that  shone  through  a  stained-glass  window  as  making  the  color  of  a 
"warm  gules" — choosing  the  word  "gules"  instead  of  some  other  word  for 
red,  because  it  was  a  term  for  one  of  the  colors  of  heraldry,  and  the  window 
had  heraldic  devices  painted  on  the  glass.  Now  it  is  plain  that  the  reader 
of  the  poem  must  know,  in  the  first  place,  what  color  "warm  gules"  stands 
for,  and  in  the  second  place  must  imagine  it  vividly  with  his  mind's  eye  to 
complete  the  picture  of  the  scene ;  otherwise  Keats  has  written  the  descrip- 
tion in  vain.  From  this  point  of  view  the  reader's  imagination  may  be 
conceived  as  a  lantern-slide  on  which  are  the  outlines  of  a  picture  that 
can  be  seen  when  illuminated  by  electricity,  and  the  poet's  words  as  the 
.switch  by  which  the  electric  current  is  turned  on. 

Test,  then,  the  reading  of  a  poem  by  such  questions  as  these :  Am  I 
moving  in  the  swing  of  the  poet's  rhythm  as  I  read  ?  Are  the  words  bring- 
ing up  for  me  all  the  mental  images  which  they  were  intended  to  suggest  ? 
In  case  the  poet  seems  to  be  using  his  images  for  the  purpose  of  interpreting 
some  idea,  am  I  thinking  his  thought  clearly  after  him? 

II 

There  are  two  chief  types  or  kinds  of  poetry,  called  Narrative  and 
Lyrical ;  but  in  order  to  make  the  second  class  include  all  that  it  may  be 
convenient  to  have  it  do,  we  may  add  another  term,  and  say  Lyrical  and 
Reflective. 

Narrative  poetry  tells  a  story,  and  the  poet  in  telling  it  does  not  usually 
speak  for  himself,  but  stands  outside  what  he  is  telling  and  lets  it  pass  like 
a  pageant  before  our  eyes.  (If  he  tells  it  in  the  first  person,  and  is  really 
engaged  in  expressing  his  o\\'T1  feelings  as  well  as  telling  the  tale,  then  a 
lyrical  element  is  mingled  with  the  narrative.)  It  is  clear  that  this  sort  of 
work  is  often  done  in  prose,  as  in  novels  and  romances,  so  that  poets  have 
no  monopoly  of  the  story-telling  art.  But  if  a  poet  tells  the  story,  instead 
of  a  prose  writer,  it  is  likely  that  he  wants  to  do  at  least  one  of  three  things 
in  which  the  prose  writer  would  not  be  so  much  interested :  he  wishes  to 


xxii  ABOUT   POETRY 

express  the  movement  of  the  story  more  strongly  by  means  of  rhythm,  or  to 
make  its  imagery  more  vivid  and  beautiful  than  is  necessary  for  the  mere 
story's  sake,  or  to  emphasize  more  strongly  the  feeling  which  it  is  supposed 
to  stir  up.  A  good  example  of  the  first  reason  is  Tennyson's  "Charge  of 
the  Heavy  Brigade"  (No.  66)  ;  of  the  second,  Keats's  "Eve  of  St.  Agnes" 
(No.  27);  of  the  third,  Arnold's  "Sohrab  and  Rustum"  (No.  50).  But 
many  narrative  poems  exemplify  all  three. 

The  principal  sub-classes  of  narrative  poetry  are  (1)  the  epic,  a  long, 
serious  narrative  of  heroic  achievement,  usually  connected  with  the  life  of 
a  whole  people  and  one  or  more  of  their  great  men  ;  (2)  the  metrical  romance, 
a  fairly  long  narrative  of  adventure,  commonly  involving  chivalry  and  love 
as  well  as  conflict,  and  making  much  of  private  persons  rather  than  national 
heroes;  (3)  the  ballad,  a  fairly  short  narrative,  in  a  simple  style  and  form 
which  suggest  that  it  has  been  or  might  be  sung  by  a  whole  company  of 
people ;  (4)  the  tale,  or  short  story  in  verse.  But  there  is  nothing  to  limit 
narrative  poetry  to  these  four  or  any  other  definite  number  of  types. 

Lyrical  poetry  expresses  personal  feeling,  and  the  poet  appears  to  speak 
for  himself  and  for  some  experience  he  has  undergone  (though  he  may, 
of  course,  be  only  imagining  the  experience).  For  reasons  explained  at  the 
beginning  of  this  essay,  this  kind  of  poetry  is  more  closely  associated  with 
song  that  any  other,  and  a  pure  lyric  may  always  be  sung  with  appropriate- 
ness, if  any  good  music  is  provided  for  it.  In  case  the  feeling  of  the  poet 
is  the  essential — almost  the  only — object  of  the  poem,  music  is  really  neces- 
sary in  order  to  make  it  seem  worth  while.  An  extreme  example  is  such  a 
song  as  Shakespeare's 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 
With  a  hey  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino! 

which  no  one  in  his  senses  would  care  to  say,  but  which  can  be  sung  with 
much  pleasure.  But  if  the  poet  adds  a  fair  amount  of  thought  as  well  as 
feeling,  we  can  speak  or  read  the  poem  with  pleasure  also;  and  if  the  thought 
element  becomes  very  large,  we  hardly  care  to  sing  it.  Thus  Gray's  Elegy 
(No.  128),  though  it  expresses  some  of  the  poet's  personal  feeling,  and  is 
therefore  lyrical  in  considerable  degree,  is  too  much  elaborated  by  way  of 
expository  thinking  to  be  called  a  lyric.  Such  poetry  is  reflective  first  of  all. 
But  often  the  lyrical  and  reflective  elements  are  so  blended  that  one  need 
not  try  to  distinguish  them. 

There  is  no  definite  list  of  sub-classes  of  lyrical  poetry;  but  we  may 
notice  particularly  (1)  the  song;  (2)  the  ode,  an  elaborate  poem,  usually 
on  a  subject  of  more  than  merely  personal  interest,  which  was  originally 
intended  for  choral  music,*  but  in  modern  times  is  highly  reflective  and 
intended  for  reading;  (3)  the  elegy,  an  elaborate  and  highly  serious  poem, 
usually  concerned  with  death  and  sorrow;  (4)  the  sonnet,  a  reflective  poem 
confined  to  fourteen  lines,  in  which  a  single  idea  or  feeling  is  brought  to  a 

♦A  sign  of  this  original  musical  element  remains  in  the  elaborate  stanzas  or  strophes 
into  which  many  odes  are  arranged. 


ABOUT   POETRY  xxiii 

definite  point  of  emphasis;*  (5)  the  dramatic  lyric,  in  which  a  song  or  other 
lyrical  poem  is  conceived  of  as  being  uttered  by  some  particular  person  in  a 
particular  situation.  (If  this  last  type  is  reflectively  elaborated,  and  repre- 
sents speech  rather  than  song,  it  is  likely  to  be  called  a  dramatic  monologue.) 
In  reading  narrative  poetry,  then,  the  chief  thing  is  to  get  hold  of  the 
story — to  follow  its  movement  clearly,  and  see  how  and  why  the  persons  in 
it  act ;  incidentally,  we  may  expect  to  have  some  element  of  fine  feeling 
communicated  to  us.  But  in  reading  lyrical  poetry,  the  chief  thing  is  to  get 
hold  of  the  feeling  the  poet  is  expressing — to  see  how  it  either  remains  the 
same  through  the  whole  poem,  or  changes  as  it  proceeds ;  incidentally,  we 
may  ask  from  what  external  experience  it  arose,  and  what  thoughts  it  led 
to  in  the  writer's  mind. 

Ill 

The  rhythm  of  poetry  may  be  divided  into  the  same  principal  types  as 
that  of  music,  namely,  double,  triple,  and  quadruple,  according  as  we  expect 
two,  three,  or  four  notes  or  syllables  to  the  beat,  measure  or  foot ;  but  with 
this  difference,  that  in  music  double  rhythm  is  comparatively  rare  and 
quadruple  very  common  indeed,  whereas  in  poetry  this  is  reversed.  In  both 
cases,  however,  we  measure  the  rhythm  not  by  the  number  of  notes  or  sylla- 
bles, but  by  the  tim^e  between  the  principal  beats.  In  music  this  time-interval 
is  indicated  by  "bars"  or  "measures"  for  the  eye;  in  poetry  it  is  only  indi- 
cated to  the  ear  by  the  principal  word-accents  to  which  one  might  beat  time. 
Thus  in  the  line  (in  No.  25) 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 

it  is  plain  that  the  syllables  "drum,"  "heard,"  "fu-,"  and  "note"  bear  the 
principal  accents  and  mark  the  time-intervals.  This  is  triple  rhythm,  in 
which  we  expect  three  syllables  to  the  beat  or  foot ;  but  we  are  not  disturbed 
by  the  fact  that  we  have  only  two  in  the  second  foot  ("Not  a  drum  was 
heard"  instead  of  "Not  a  trumpet  was  heard"),  for  "drum"  is  easily  pro- 
nounced to  take  as  much  time  as  "trumpet,"  so  that  the  rhythmic  time  is  kept. 
When  rhythm  is  arranged,  as  in  poetry,  in  lines  or  verses  of  regular 
length,  it  is  regarded  as  being  measured  into  metre.  If  verses  in  double 
rhythm  regularly  begin  with  the  unaccented  syllable,  they  are  said  to  be  in 
iambic  metre ;  if  with  the  accented  syllable,  in  trochaic.  If  verses  in  triple 
rhythm  regularly  begin  with  the  unaccented  syllable,  they  are  said  to  be  in 
anapestic  metre ;  if  with  the  accented  syllable,  in  dactylic.  Verses  in  quad- 
ruple rhythm  are  said  to  be  in  pcconic  metre,  whether  beginning  with  or  with- 
out the  accent.  A  verse  ending  with  the  accented  syllable  is  said  to  have  a 
masculine  ending;  with  the  unaccented  syllable,  a  feminine  ending.  It  is 
plain  that  iambic  and  anapestic  metres  will  regularly  have  masculine  endings, 

*  The  sonnet  usually  has  a  fixed  rime-scheme  which  divides  it  either  into  an  octave 
and  a  sestet  (that  is,  an  eight-line  and  a  six-line  part)  or  into  three  quatrains  and  a 
couplet.  If  we  let  a  stand  for  the  first  rime  sound,  b  for  the  second,  etc.,  the  plan  of 
the  sonnet  rimes  will  usually  be  either  abbaabba,cdecde,  or  abab,cdcd,efcf,gg. 


xxiv  ABOUT    POETRY 

and  trochaic  and  dactylic  metres  will  have  feminine  endings ;  but  an  iambic 
or  anapestic  verse  may  have  a  feminine  ending,  owing  to  an  extra  light 
syllable  being  added  at  the  end,  and  a  trochaic  or  dactylic  verse  may  have  a 
masculine  ending,  owing  to  the  omission  of  the  unaccented  part  of  the  la  t 
foot.  (Such  trochaic  or  dactylic  verses  are  called  catalcctic  or  truncated.' 
We  may  therefore  fully  describe  a  metre,  if  it  is  of  a  normal  type,  by  saying 
that  it  is  "four-foot  iambic,"  "three-foot  anapestic  with  feminine  ending," 
"five- foot  trochaic  catalectic,"  etc.  But  in  some  poems  (for  example,  No. 
240)  the  metre  varies  between  dissyllabic  and  trisyllabic,  so  that  it  may  be 
called  iambic-anapestic ;  and  in  others  the  lines  open  variously  with  accented 
or  unaccented  syllables,  when  it  may  be  called  iambic-trochaic  (as  in  Nos. 
106  and  107)  or  dactylic-anapestic  (as  in  No.  267).  Again,  some  poems 
seem  to  vary  between  double  and  quadruple  rhythm,  each  fourth  syllable 
bearing  a  principal  accent,  but  with  a  tendency  toward  accenting  every  sec- 
ond syllable  also  (see  No.  80)  ;  these  metres  may  be  called  trochaic-paeonic 
or  iambic-paeonic. 

IV 

In  conclusion,  it  may  be  well  to  ask.  What  is  the  advantage  of  our  taking 
an  interest  in  poetry,  apart  from  the  few  occasions  when  it  may  attract  our 
attention  because  of  some  especially  striking  use  to  which  it  is  put?  The 
first  answer  is  that  the  love  of  poetry  is  one  of  the  highest  forms  of  pleasure. 
The  love  of  good  pictures  is  a  high  form  of  pleasure,  but  they  do  not  often 
have  as  close  a  relation  to  life  as  poetry,  and  at  their  best  are  rare  and 
expensive.  The  love  of  good  music  is  another  high  form  of  pleasure,  but 
it  is  also  connected  rather  slightly  with  the  problems  of  living,  and  experi- 
ence shows  that  comparatively  few  persons  get  far  enough  into  the  knowl- 
edge of  musical  forms  to  enjoy  this  art  at  its  best.  But  poetry  introduces 
us  to  the  enjoyment  of  beauty  as  swiftly  and  eflfectively  as  pictures  and 
music  do ;  it  deals  with  pleasurable  aspects  of  almost  every  kind  of  experi- 
ence in  real  life ;  and  anyone  who  can  read  can  soon  acquire  the  ability  to  get 
into  the  movement  and  feeling  of  the  work  of  the  very  greatest  poets,  even 
though  all  their  ideas  may  not  be  fully  understood. 

A  second  answer  has  already  been  suggested.  While  some  poetry  exists 
only  for  pleasure,  most  good  poetry  contains  also  the  interpretation  of  aspects 
of  life.  It  does  not  interpret  them  in  the  same  way  that  a  school-teacher,  a 
scientist,  an  editor,  or  a  preacher  may  do,  and  cannot  take  the  place  of 
education,  science,  sociology,  or  religion ;  but  in  the  special  way  by  which 
the  imagination  interprets  things,  the  poet  does  what  no  one  else  can  do  so 
well.  He  accompanies  us  into  all  our  most  thrilling  experiences — out-of- 
door  life,  patriotism,  war,  love,  sorrow,  religion,  hope,  ambition — and  brings 
out  the  finest  feelings  that  they  involve.  He  does  not  have  much  to  say 
about  eating  and  drinking  and  clothes  and  the  earning  of  money,  because 
these  experiences  are  connected  with  comparatively  low  levels  of  feeling; 
but  on  the  other  hand  he  does  not,  as  some  people  suppose,  keep  to  a  few 
narrow  subjects.     He  may  write  about  machinery — locomotives  and  aero- 


ABOUT    POETRY  xxv 

planes — as  well  as  sunsets  and  flowers.  And  he  is  likely  to  lead  us  from 
the  more  commonplace  and  superficial  side  of  whatever  he  treats  of,  into  its 
deeper  and  richer  meanings.  Consequently,  those  who  become  well  ac- 
quainted with  good  poetry,  and  carry  much  of  it  in  their  memory,  find  it  all 
through  their  lives  a  kind  of  companion — one  who  not  only  shares  their 
pleasures  and  pains  sympathetically,  but  says  about  each  of  them  the  truest 
and  wisest  word. 


PART   ONE 
NARRATIVE   POEMS 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


THE  PARDONER'S  TALE 

GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 

(Modernised    by    Frank    Ernest    Hill) 

[This  16  the  story  told  by  the  Pardoner  to  his 
companions  of  the  Canterbury  pilgrimage.  It 
was  not  ori^nal  with  Chaucer,  but  has  been 
found  in  various  medieval  versions.  A  long  ser- 
monic  passage  on  the  vices  of  dissipated  men  is 
omitted  from  the  paraphrase.] 

In  Flanders  once  there  dwelt  a  company 
Of  youth,  that  followed  foolish  revelry, — 
As  riotous  taverns,  and  their  evil  fruits, 
Wherein  with  citherns  and  with  harps  and 

lutes 
They  danced  and  played  at  dice  both  day 

and  night, 
And    also   ate    and    drank    beyond    their 

might, 
Whereby,  in  Satan's  temple,  did  they  pay 
The  devil  sacrifice  in  cursed  way 
With  frightful  and  most  horrible  excess. 
Their  oaths  were  great  and  full  of  wick- 
edness, 10 
That  it  was  hideous  to  hear  them  swear. 
Our  Lord's  own  blessed  body  would  they 

teari 
(Too  little  by  the  Jews  they   deemed  it 

rent), 
And  made  each  other's  sins  a  merriment. 


These  rioters,  of  whom  I  make  my  rime. 
Long  ere  a  single  bell  had  rung  for  prime,^ 
Had  sat  them  in  a  tavern  for  to  drink. 
And  as  they  sat,  they  heard  a  hand-bell 

clink 
Before  a  body,  carried  to  its  grave. 
Then   called   the   one   of   them   unto   his 
knave^ —  20 

"Be  off !"  he  cried,  "and  truly  certify 
Whose  body  'tis  without  that  passes  by, 
And  see  that  you  report  his  name  aright !" 
"Sir,"  answered  him  this  boy,  "  'tis  need- 
less quite ; 
For    I    was   told   two   hours    before   you 

came; 
He  was  a  fellow  of  yours,  by  God's  own 


Hame 


1  A  reference  to  a  particular  type  of  oath. 
familiar  in  the  Middle  Ages,  which  is  exemplified 
in  lines  46  and  49.     Compare  also  line  63. 

2  prime.  The  first  period  of  the  church  day, 
nine  a.m. 

3  knave.     Boy,  servant. 


By  night  he  died,  and  in  a  sudden  waiy, 
As  flat  upon  his  bench,  all  drunk,  he  lay. 
There  came  a  privy  thief — men  call  him 

Death— 
That     in     this     country     all     the     people 

slay'th,  30 

And   smote   his   heart    asunder   with    his 

spear, 
And  all  in  silence  went  his  way  from  hero. 
During  this   plague   he  hath   a   thousand 

slain. 
And,  master,  ere  ye  meet  this  grisly  bane,* 
It  seems  to  me  that  it  were  necessary 
To  be  prepared  for  such  an  adversary, — 
Be  ready  for  to  meet  him  evermore; 
My  mother  taught  me  so;  I  say  no  more." 
"Now  by  St.  Mary,"  cried  the  taverner, 
•"The  child  speaks  true;  this  year,  I  will 

aver,  40 

Woman,  and  child,   and   man,   in  yonder 

town, 
And  page   and   villain,^  he  hath   smitten 

down, — 
I  trow  his  habitation  must  be  there. 
And  it  were  utmost  wisdom  to  beware 
Lest  that  a  man  some  injury  incur. 
"Yea,  by  God's  arms,"  replied  this  rioter, 
"Is  he  so  perilous  a  knave  to  meet? 
I    swear   to    seek    him    out    by    road    and 

street ; 
Upon  the  bones  of  God  I  make  a  vow. 
Comrades,  we  three  are  one, — then  heark- 
en now !  50 
Let  each  of  us  hold  up  his  hand  to  th' 

other. 

And    each    of    us    become    the    other's 

brother ; 
And    we    will    slay    this    false    betrayer 

Death,— 
He  shall  be  slain,  he  that  so  many  slay'th. 
By  God's  own  dignity,  ere  it  be  night!" 
Together  then  these  three  their  troth  did 

plight. 
To  live  and  die  each  of  them  for  the  other. 
As  though  each  one  were  born  the  other's 

brother. 
And   in  this  drunken  passion   forth  they 

started. 
And    toward    that    very   village    they    de- 
parted 60 

4  bane.     Destrayer. 

5  villain.     Low-bom  man. 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Of  which  the  tavern-keeper  spoke  before. 
And  then   full  many  a  grisly  oath  they 

swore, 
And  rent  the   Saviour's  body,   limb   for 

limb, — 
Death  should  be  dead,  if  they  discovered 

him! 
When  they   had   traveled   hardly   half   a 

mile. 
Just  as  they  would  have  crossed  a  certain 

stile, 
They  chanced  to  meet  a  poor  and  aged 

man. 
This  old  man  meekly  spoke,  and  thus  be- 
gan 
To  greet  them:  "Sirs,  God  keep  you  m 

His  sight!" 
Then  of  these  rascals  three  the  proudest 

wight  70 

Replied,  "Now  curse  you,  churl  1  Whither 

apace? 
And  why  all  wrapped  and  hidden  save 

your  face? 
How  dare  you  live  so  long  in  Death's 

defy?" 
This  old  man  sought  his  face  with  search- 
ing eye. 
And  answered  thus :  "Because,  e'en  though 

I  went 
To  Ind,  I  could  not  find  a  man  content, 
In  city  or  in  village,  it  is  truth. 
In  change  for  this  my  age  to  give  his 

youth. 
So  must  I  have  my  age  in  keeping  still, 
As  long  a  time  as  it  shall  be  God's  will.  80 
Nor  Death,  alas !  he  will  not  have  my  life ; 
And   thus   I   walk,   my   restless   heart   at 

strife. 
And  on  the  ground,  which  is  my  mother's 

gate, 
I  knock  with   anxious  staff,   both   early 

and  late, 
And  say,  'Beloved  mother,  let  me  in! 
How  am  I  wasted,  flesh  and  blood  and 

skin; 
Alas!   when   shall   my   bones    be   laid   to 

rest? 
To   be   with  you  I   would   exchange   my 

chest 

That  in  my  room  a  weary  time  hath  been. 

Yea,  for  a  hair-cloth^  I  could  wrap  me 

in !'  .90 

And   yet   she  will   not   do   me  this   poor 

grace ; 
Wherefore  full  pale  and  withered  is  my 

face. 
But,  sirs,  ye  lack  in  common  courtesy 
That  to  an  aged  man  speak  villainy 
I  hair-doth.     Shroud. 


When  he  hath  neither  sinned  in  word  nor 

deed. 
For  well  in  holy  writings  may  ye  read, 
'Before  an  aged  man,  whose  hair  is  gray, 
Ye  should  arise;'  and  therefore  do  I  say, 
To  no  old  man  do  ye  an  injury. 
As  ye  yourselves  would  look   for  clem- 
ency 100 
In  your  old  age,  if  so  ye  should  abide. 
And  God  be  with  you,  where  ye  walk  or 

ride ; — 
I  must  be  off  where  I  have  need  to  go." 
"Nay  now,  old  churl!   By  God,  you  shall 

not  so!" 
Answered  another  rioter  anon; 
"You  shall  not  part  so  lightly,  by  St.  John ! 
You  spoke  just  now  of  that  same  traitor 

Death 
That   in   this   country  all   our  comrades 

slay'th. 
Have  here  my  word :  as  you're  a  spy  of 

his, 
Abide   the    worst,   or   tell   us   where   he 

is,  no 

By  God  and  by  the  Holy  Sacrament ! 
For  truly,  you  are  one  of  his  assent,^ 
To  slay  us  youthful  folk,  deceitful  thief!" 
"Nay,  sirs,"  said  he,  "if  ye  can  find  relief 
Only  by  finding  Death,   turn   down   that 

way; 
For  in  yon  grove  I  left  him,  sooth  to  say. 
Under  a  tree,  and  there  he  will  abide, — 
Not  for  your  empty  boasting  will  he  hide. 
See  ye  that  oak  tree?    Ye  shall  find  him 

there. 
God,  that  redeemed  mankind,  your  spirits 

spare,  120 

And  better  you!"     Thus  ended  this  old 

man; 
And  toward  the  tree  these  drunken  rascals 

ran 
All  three,  and  there,  about  its  roots,  they 

found 
Of  golden  florins,  fine  and  coined  round, 
Almost    a    full    eight    bushels,    as    they 

thought. 
No   longer  then   the   traitor   Death   they 

sought, 
But  each  was  made  so  happy  by  the  sight 
Of  all  those  florins  shining  fair  and  bright 
That  down  they  sat  beside  the  precious 

horde. 
The  worst  of  them  essayed  the  foremost 

word :  13° 

"Brothers,"  he  said,  "take  heed  of  what  I 

say ; 
My  wit  is  great,  although  I  jest  and  play! 
3  assent.     Conspiracy. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


Fortune  hath   found  it   fit  to   give   this 

treasure 
That  we  may  live  our  lives  in  lust  and 

pleasure ; 
Lightly  it  comes — so  shall  it  speed  away ! 
God's  dignity !  who  would  have  dreamed 

to-day 
That  we  should  have  so  good  a  share  of 

grace  ? 
But  could  the  gold  be  carried  from  this 

place 
Home   to   my  house,   or   else   to  one  of 

yours, — 
For  well  we  know  that  all  this  gold  is 

ours —  140 

Then  were  we  in  a  high  felicity ! 
But  such  a  thing  by  day  might  never  be; 
Men  would  proclaim  us  thieves,  and  do 

us  wrong, — 
For  our  own  treasure  we  might  e'en  be 

hung. 
This  gold  must  then  be  carried  hence  by 

night, 
With  secrecy  and  cautious  oversight. 
Wherefore  I  say,  let  lot  among  us  all 
Be  drawn,  and  we  will  see  where  it  shall 

fall; 
And  he  that  draws  the  lot,  with  willing 

heart 
And  nimble  pace  shall  to  the  town  de- 
part, ISO 
And  slyly  bring  us  bread  and  wine,  and  we 
That  still  remain  shall  guard  full  carefully 
This  gold;  and  if  our  comrade  does  not 

tarry. 
When   it  is   night   we  will   this  treasure 

carry 
Wherever,  by  agreement,  we  may  list," 
Then  one  held  out  the  lot  within  his  fist, 
And  bade  them  draw,  and  look  where  it 

would  fall; 
And  it  fell  on  the  youngest  of  them  all, 
And  toward  the  town  he  journeyed  forth 

anon. 
And  at  the  very  moment  he  was  gone   160 
The   one   of   them   thus   spoke   unto   the 

other : 
"Full  well  you  know  you  are  my  pledged 

brother ; 
Your  profit  will  I  tell  to  you  anon. 
Now    our   companion,    as    you   know,    is 

gone, 
And  here  is  gold,  and  that  great  quantity. 
That  shall  be  portioned  out  between  us 

three. 
But  ne'ertheless,  if  I  could  shape  it  so 
That  it  should  be  divided  'twixt  us  two, 


Had   I   not    done   a   comrade's   turn   by 

thee?" 
The  other  answered  him,  "How  may  that 

be?  170 

He  knows  the  two  of  us  do  guard   the 

gold; 
What  shall  we  do?  what  would  you  have 

him  told?" 
"Shall  it  be  secret?"  shrewdly  asked  the 

first; 
"Then   shortly    shall   the   method   be   re- 
hearsed 
Whereby  I  think  to  bring  it  well  about." 
"Agreed,"  replied  the  other;  "out  of  doubt 
I  will  betray  you  not,  as  God  is  true." 
"Now,"  said  the  first,  "you  know  that  we 

are  two, 
And  two  of  us  are  mightier  than  one. 
Watch  when  he  sits,  then  straightway  rise 

and  run  180 

As  though  to  play  with  him,  and  I'll  de- 
vise 
To  slit  him  with  my  dagger  as  he  lies 
In  struggle  with  you,  thinking  it  is  game; 
And  see  that  with  your  knife  you  do  the 

same; 
And  then  shall  all  this  gold  divided  be 
'Twixt  you,   my   comrade   most   beloved, 

and  me. 
Then  may  we  sate  our  joys,  and  never 

tire, 
And  play  at  dice  whenever  we   desire !" 
And  thus  these  rascals  two  devised  a  way 
To  slay  the  third,  as  you  have  heard  me 

say.  190 

This  youngest,  he  that  journeyed  to  the 

town. 
Within  his  heart  rolled  often  up  and  down 
The    beauty    of    these    florins    new    and 

bright. 
"O   Lord!"   quoth   he,   "if   it    were  so   I 

might 
Have  all  this  treasure  to  myself  alone, 
There    lives    not    any    man    beneath    the 

throne 
Of  God,  that  might  exist  more  merrily 
Than  I !"    And  so  the  fiend,  our  enemy, 
Put  in  his  head  that  he  should  poison  buy 
Wherewith  to  make  his  two  companions 

die;  200 

Because  the  fiend   found  him  in  such  a 

state 
That  he  had  leave  his  fall  to  consum- 
mate, 
For  it  was  out  of  doubt  his  full  intent 
To  slay  them  both,  and  never  to  repent. 
So    forth    he    goes — no    longer    will    he 

tarry — 
Unto  a  town,  to  an  apothecary. 


4 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  prayed  for  poison  to  exterminate 
Some  rats,  and  pole-cats  that  had  robbed 

of  late 
His  roosts, — and  he  would  venge  him,  if 

he  might, 
On  vermin  that  devoured  him  by  night. 
Then  this  apothecary,  answering:  211 

"God  save  my  soul,  but  you  shall  have  a 

thing 
That,  let  a  living  creature  drink  or  eat 
A  part  no  bigger  than  a  grain  of  wheat, 
And   he   shall    die,    and   that    in    shorter 

while 
Than  you   would   take  to   pace   a  single 

mile; 
Such   is  the   force  this   poison  can  com- 
mand." 
This  cursed  man  received  into  his  hand 
The  poison  in  a  box,  and  then  he  ran 
Into  a  nearby  street,  unto  a  man,         220 
And    from    him    did    he    borrow    bottles 

three. 
And  in  the  two  his  poison  poured  he, 
But   left   the   third    unpoisoned,    for   his 

drink ; 
For  he  must  work  all  night — so  did  he 

think— 
Bearing  the  treasure  off  with  lusty  limb. 
And  when  this  rioter — bad  luck  to  him ! — 
Had  filled  with  liquor  all  his  bottles  three, 
Back  to  his  fellows  then  resorted  he. 
What  need  is  there  to  linger  on  it  more? 
For  just  as  they  had  planned  his  death 

before,  230 

So  did  they  slay  him  now,  and  that  with 

speed. 
Then  said  the  one,  when  they  had  done 

the  deed: 
"Now  let  us  eat  and  drink,  and  make  us 

merry, 
And  afterwards  we  will  his  body  bury." 
And  with  that  word  he  took,  it  came  to 

pass, 
One  of  the  bottles  where  the  poison  was, 
And  drank,  and  gave  his  comrade  drink 

beside. 
From    which    they   both    in   little   season 

died. 
And  Avicenna,!  truly  I  suppose,  239 

In  book  nor  chapter  never  did  disclose 
More   signs   of   poisoning   to   take    one's 

breath 
Than  these  two  wretches  had  before  their 

death. 
Thus  these  two  homicidal  villains  fell. 
And  their  deceitful  poisoner  as  well. 
I  Avicenna.     A  medical  authority. 


SIR   PATRICK   SPENCE 

[This  ballad  is  perhaps  connected  with  the 
story  of  the  shipwreck  of  a  vessel  bearing  an 
embassy  between  Scotland  and  Norway  in  1390.] 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toun. 
Drinking  the  blood-red  wine : 

"O  where  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 
To  sail  this  ship  of  mine?" 

Up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight. 

Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee : 
"Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor 

That  sails  upon  the  sea." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  ^  letter, 
And  signed  it  wi'  his  hand,  10 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

A  loud  laugh  laughed  he ; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blinded  his  e'e. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

This  ill  deed  done  to  me. 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o*  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea!  20 

"Make  haste,  make  haste,  my  merry  men 
all. 

Our  guid  ship  sails  the  morn:" 
"O  say  not  so,  my  master  dear. 

For  I  fear  a  deadly  storm. 

"Late  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moon, 
Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm. 

And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  dear  master. 
That  we  will  come  to  harm." 

O  our  Scots  nobles  were  richt  laith  2 
To  wet  their  cork-heel'd  shoon ;  30 

But  lang  e'er  a'  the  play  were  played. 
Their  hats  they  swam  aboon.^ 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 
Or  e'er  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spence 

Come  sailing  to  the  land. 
O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 

Wi'  their  gold  kems*  in  their  hair, 
Waiting  for  their  ain  dear  lords. 

For  they'll  see  them  na  mair,  40 

Half  o'er,  half  o'er  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fifty  fathom  deep. 
And  there  lies  guid    Sir   Patrick   Spence. 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 

1  braid.  Open. 

2  laith.  Loath. 

3  aboon.     Above. 

4  kerns.  Combs. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


JOHNNIE  COCK 

Up  Johnnie  rose  in  a  May  morning, 
Called  for  water  to  wash  his  hands, 

And    he   has    called    for    his    good    gray 
hounds 
That  lay  bound  in  iron  bands. 

"Ye'll  busk,^  ye'll  busk  my  noble  dogs, 
Ye'll  busk  and  make  them  boun,^ 

For  I'm  going  to  the  Braidscaur  hill 
To  ding3  the  dun  deer  doun." 

Johnnie's  mother  has  gotten  word  o'  that, 
And  care-bed  she  has  ta'en  :*  lO 

"O  Johnnie,  for  my  benison, 
I  beg  you'll  stay  at  hame ; 

For  the  wine  so  red,  and  the  well-baken 
bread. 
My  Johnnie  shall  want  nane. 

"There  are  seven   foresters  at  Pickeram 
Side, 

At  Pickeram  where  they  dwell. 
And  for  a  drop  of  thy  heart's  blood 

They  would  ride  the  fords  of  hell." 

But  Johnnie  has  cast  off  the  black  velvet, 
And  put  on  the  Lincoln  twine,^  20 

And  he  is  on  to  good  greenwood 
As  fast  as  he  could  gang. 

Johnnie   lookit   east,   and   Johnnie   lookit 
west, 

And  he  lookit  aneath  the  sun. 
And  there  he  spied  the  dun  deer  sleeping 

Aneath  a  buss  o'  whun.*' 

Johnnie  shot,  and  the  dun  deer  lap,'' 

And  she  lap  wondrous  wide. 
Until  they  came  to  the  wan^  water, 

And  he  stemmed  her  of  her  pride.    30 

He  has  ta'en  out  the  little  pen-knife, 
'Twas  full  three  quarters  long. 

And  he  has  ta'en  out  of  that  dun  deer 
The  liver  but  and^  the  tongue. 

They  eat  of  the  flesh,  and  they  drank  of 
the  blood, 
And  the  blood  it  was  so  sweet, 
Which    caused    Johnnie    and    his    bloody 
hounds 
To  fall  in  a  deep  sleep. 

1  busk.     Prepare. 

2  boun.     Ready. 

3  ding.     Strike. 

4  Grown  ill  with  anxiety. 

5  twine.     Cloth.      (Lincoln  cloth  was  the  hun- 
ters' "green.") 

6  Under  a  bush  of  furze. 

7  lap.     Leaped. 

8  wan.     Dark. 

9  but  and.     And  also. 


By  then  came  an  old  palmer, 
And  an  ill  death  may  he  die ! 

For  he's  away  to  Pickram  Side 
As  fast  as  he  can  drie.i** 


40 


saw 


50 


"What  news,  what  news?"  says  the  Seven 
Foresters, 

"What  news  have  you  brought  to  me?" 
"I  have  no  news,"  the  palmer  said, 

"But  what  I  saw  with  my  eye. 

"As  I  came  in  by  Braidisbanks, 
And  down  among  the  whuns, 

The  bonniest  youngster  e'er  I  s; 
Lay  sleepin'  among  his  hunds 

"The  shirt  that  was  upon  his  back 

Was  o*  the  holland  fine; 
The  doublet  which  was  over  that 

Was  o'  the  Lincoln  twine." 

Up  bespake  the  Seven  Foresters, 

Up  bespake  they  ane  and  a' : 
"O  that  is  Johnnie  o'  Cockley's  Well, 

And  near  him  we  will  draw." 

O  the  first  stroke  that  they  gave  him 
They  struck  him  off  by  the  knee ;        60 

Then  up  bespake  his  sister's  son : 
"O  the  next  '11  gar"  him  die  1" 

"O  some  they  count  ye  well-wight^^  men, 

But  I  do  count  ye  nane ; 
For  you  might  well  ha*  wakened  me. 

And  asked  gin^^  I  would  be  ta'en. 

"The  wildest  wolf  in  a'  this  wood 
Would  not  ha'  done  so  by  me; 

She'd  ha'  wet  her  foot  in  the  wan  water. 
And  sprinkled  it  o'er  my  brae,^*  70 

And  if  that  would  not  ha'  wakened  me, 
She  would  ha'  gone  and  let  me  be. 

"O  bows  of  yew,  if  ye  be  true. 
In  London,  where  ye  were  bought. 

Fingers  five,  get  up  belive,!^ 
Manhood  shall  fail  me  nought." 

He  has  killed  the  Seven  Foresters, 
He  has  killed  them  all  but  ane. 

And  that  wan^^  scarce  to  Pickeram  Side, 
To  carry  the  bode-words^^  hame.        80 

10  drie.     Endure  (to  go). 

1 1  gar.     Make  (cause). 

12  well-wight.     Hardy. 

13  gin.     If. 

14  brae.     Brow. 

15  belive.     Quickly. 

16  wan.     Came. 

17  bode-words.     Tidings. 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Is  there  never  a  bird  in  a'  this  wood 
That  will  tell  what  I  can  say; 

That  will  go  to  Cockley's  Well, 
Tell  my  mither  to  fetch  me  away?" 

There  was  a  bird  into  that  wood, 
That  carried  the  tidings  away, 

And  many  one  was  the  well-wight  man 
At  the  fetching  o'  Johnnie  away. 


KINMONT   WILLIE 

[In  its  present  form  this  ballad  is  partly  the 
work  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Kinmont  Willie  was 
William  of  Armstrong, — "Will  o'  Kinmouth." 
His  capture  and  release  took  place  in  1596.  Lord 
Scroop  was  warden  of  the  West-Marches  of  Eng- 
land, and  Salkeld  was  his  deputy.  The  Scotch 
marshal  was  Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Branxholm, 
laird  of  Buccleuch.  Hairibee  is  the  place  of 
execution  at  Carlisle.] 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  false  Sakelde? 

0  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  keen^  Lord 
Scroop  ? 

How  they  ha'  ta'en  bold  Kinmont  Willie, 
On  Hairibee  to  hang  him  up? 

Had  Willie  had  but  twenty  men, 
But  twenty  men  as  stout  as  he. 

False   Sakelde    had    never    the    Kinmont 
ta'en, 
Wi'  eight  score  in  his  company. 

They  bound  his  legs  beneath  the  steed, 

They  tied  his  hands  behind  his  back;  lo 
They    guarded    him,    fivesome^    on    each 
side. 
And  they  brought  him  over  the  Liddel 
rack.3 

They  led  him  through  the  Liddel  rack, 
And  also  through  the  Carlisle  sands; 

They  brought  him  to  Carlisle's  castle, 
To  be  at  my  Lord  Scroop's  commands. 

"My  hands  are  tied,   but   my   tongue   is 
free, 

And  who  will  dare  this  deed  avow? 
Or  answer  by  the  border  law? 

Or  answer  to  the  bold  Buccleuch?"  20 

"Now  hold  thy  tongue,  thou  rank  reiver  !* 
There's  never  a  Scot  shall  set  ye  free; 
Before  ye  cross   my  castle-gate, 

1  trow  ye  shall  take  farewell  o'  me." 

1  keen.     Bold. 

2  fivesome.     Five  together. 

3  rack.     Ford. 

4  reiver.     Robber. 


"Fear  na  ye  that,  my  lord,"  quoth  Willie, 
"By  the  faith  o'  my  body.  Lord  Scroop," 
he  said, 
"I  never  yet  lodged  in  a  hostelry 

But  I  paid  my  lawings  before  I  gaed." 
Now  word  is  gone  to  the  bold  Keeper, 

In  Branksome  Ha'  where  that  he  lay,  30 
That  Lord  Scroop  has  ta'en  the  Kinmont 
Willie, 

Between  the  hours  of  night  and  day. 

He  has  ta'en  the  table  wi'  his  hand, 
He  gar'd^  the  red  wine  spring  on  high ; 

"Now    Christ's    curse   on    my   head,"    he 
said, 
"But  avenged  of  Lord  Scroop  I'll  be. 

"O  is  my  basnet^  a  widow's  curch?* 
Or   my   lance   a   wand   of   the  willow- 
tree? 

Or  my  arm  a  lady's  lily  hand?  39 

That  an  English  lord  should  lightly  me. 

"And  have  they  ta'en  him  Kinmont  Willie, 
Against  the  truce  of  Border  tide. 

And  forgotten  that  the  bold  Buccleu 
Is  keeper  here  on  the  Scottish  side? 

"And  have  they  e'en  ta'en  him  Kinmont 
Willie, 

Withouten  either  dread  or  fear, 
And  forgotten  that  the  bold  Buccleuch 

Can  back  a  steed,  or  shake  a  spear? 

"O  were  there  war  between  the  lands. 
As  well  I  wot  that  there  is  none,      50 

I  would  slight^  Carlisle  castle  high, 
Though  it  were  builded  of  marble-stone. 

"I  would  set  that  castle  in  a  lowe,^*> 
And  slocken^i  it  with  English  blood, 

There's  never  a  man  in  Cumberland 
Should  keni2  where  Carlisle  castle  stood. 

"But  since  nae  war's  between  the  lands. 

And  there  is  peace,  and  peace  should 
be, 
I'll  neither  harm  English  lad  or  lass,      59 

And  yet  the  Kinmont  freed  shall  be!" 

5  lowing.     Board  account. 

6  gar'd.     Made. 

7  basnet.     Helmet. 

8  curch.     Kerchief. 

9  slight.     Raze. 

10  Make  the  castle  a  mere  hillock, 
n  slacken.     Drench. 
12  ken.     Know, 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


He  has  called  him  forty  marchmen  bold, 
I  trow  they  were  of  his  ain  name, 

Except  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  called 
The  Laird  of  Stobs,  I  mean  the  same. 

He  has  called  him  forty  marchmen  bold, 
Were  kinsmen  to  the  bold  Buccleuch, 

With  spur  on  heel,  and  splent  on  spauld,^ 
And  gloves  of  green,  and  feathers  blue. 

There  were  five  and  five  before  them  a', 
Wi'   hunting-horns   and   bugles   bright; 

And  five  and  five  came  wi'  Buccleuch,  71 
Like  Warden's  men,  arrayed   for  fight. 

And  five  and  five  like  a  mason-gang. 
That  carried  the  ladders  lang  and  hie; 

And  five  and  five  like  broken  men;2 
And  so  they   reached  the  Woodhouse- 
lee. 

And  as  we  crossed  the  Eatable  Land,^ 
When  to  the  English  side  we  held, 

The  first  o'  men  that  we  met  wi', 
Whae  should  it  be  but  false  Sakelde !  80 

"Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  hunters  keen?" 
Quoth  false  Sakelde ;  "come  tell  to  me !" 

"We  go  to  hunt  an  English  stag, 
Has  trespassed  on  the  Scots  countree," 

"Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  marshal-men?" 
Quoth    false    Sakelde;    "come    tell    me 
true!" 
"We  go  to  catch  a  rank  reiver. 
Has    broken    faith    wi'    the   bold    Buc- 
cleuch." 

"Where  are   ye  gaun,   ye  mason-lads, 
Wi'  a'  your  ladders  lang  and  hie?"    90 

"We  gang  to  harry*  a  corbie's^  nest. 
That  wons^  not   far  frae  Woodhouse- 
lee." 

"Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  broken  men?" 
Quoth  false  Sakelde ;  "come  tell  to  me !" 

Now  Dickie  of  Dryhope  led  that  band, 
And  the  never  a  word  o'  lore'^  had  he. 

"Why  trespass  ye  on  the  English  side? 
Row-footed^     outlaws,     stand !"     quoth 
he; 
The  ne'er  a  word  had  Dickie  to  say. 
So  he  thrust  the  lance  through  his  false 
bodie.  100 

1  splent  on  spauld.     Armor  on  shoulder. 

2  broken  men.     Outlaws. 

3  Eatable  Land.     Border. 

4  harry.     Plunder. 

5  corbie's.     Crow's. 

6  vons.     Dwells. 

7  lore.     Learning. 

8  Row-fooled.     Rough-footed. 


Then  on  we  held  for  Carlisle  town, 
And   at    Staneshaw-bank   the   Eden   we 
crossed ; 

The  water  was  great,  and  mickle  of  spait,^ 
But  the  never  a  horse  nor  man  we  lost. 

And    when    we   reached    the    Staneshaw- 
bank, 
The  wind  was  rising  loud  and  hie; 
And  there  the  laird  gar'd  leave  our  steeds. 
For  fear   that   they   should   stamp   and 
neigh. 

And  when  we  left  the  Staneshaw-bank, 
The  wind  began  full  loud  to  blaw ;  no 

But   'twas   wind   and   wet,    and   fire   and 
sleet. 
When  we  came  beneath  the  castle  wa'. 

We   crept   on   our   knees,    and    held   our 
breath. 
Till  we  placed  the  ladders  against  the 
wa'; 
And  so  ready  was  Buccleuch  himself 
To  mount  the  first  before  us  a'. 

He  has  ta'en  the  watchman  by  the  throat. 
He  flung  him  down  upon  the  lead;!" 

"Had  there  not  been  peace  between  our 

lands,  119 

Upon  the  other  side  thou  hadst  gaed. 

"Now  sound  out,  trumpets !"  quoth  Buc- 
cleuch ; 
"Let's  waken  Lord   Scroop  right  mer- 
rily." 
Then  loud  the  Warden's  trumpets  blew 
"O  wha  dare  meddle  wi'  me?" 

Then  speedily  to  work  we  gaed. 
And  raised  the  slogan  ane  and  a'. 

And  cut  a  hole  through  a  sheet  of  lead. 
And  so  we  won  to  the  castle-ha'. 

They  thought  King  James  and  a'  his  men 
Had  won  the  house  wi'  bow  and  spear ; 

It  was  but  twenty  Scots  and  ten  131 

That  put  a  thousand  in  sic  a  stear!" 

Wi*  coulters  and  wi'  forehammers^^ 
We  gar'd  the  bars  bang  merrily, 

Until  we  came  to  the  inner  prison. 
Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did  lie. 

9  mickle  of  spait.     Great  of  flood . 

10  lead.     That  is,  of  the  roof.     Cf.  line  127. 

11  sttar.     Stir. 

la  With   plow-blades   and   sledge-hammers. 


8 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  when  we  came  to  the  lower  prison, 
Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did  lie, 

"O  sleep  ye,  wake  ye,  Kinmont  Willie, 
Upon  the  morn  that  thou's  to  die?"  140 

"O  I  sleep  soft,  and  I  wake  oft. 
It's  lang  since  sleeping  was  fleyd^  from 
me; 
Gi'    my    service    back    to    my    wife    and 
bairns, 
And    a'   good    fellows   that    speir^    for 
me." 

Then  Red  Rowan  has  hent^  him  up. 
The  starkest  man  in  Teviotdale. 

"Abide,  abide  now.  Red  Rowan, 
Till  of  my  Lord  Scroop   I  take   fare- 
well. 

"Farewell,     farewell,     my     good     Lord 

Scroop ! 

My   good   Lord   Scroop,    farewell!"   he 

cried.  150 

"I'll  pay  you   for  my  lodging-mail* 

When  first  we  meet  on  the  border  side." 

Then  shoulder  high,  with  shout  and  cry, 
We  bore  him  down  the  ladder  lang; 

At  every  stride  Red  Rowan  went, 
I  wot  the  Kinmont's  iron  played  clang. 

"O  mony  a  time,"  quoth  Kinmont  Willie, 
"I    have    ridden    horse    both    wild    and 
wood,s 

But  a  rougher  beast  than  Red  Rowan 
I  ween  my  legs  have  ne'er  bestrode.  160 

"And  mony  a  time,"  quoth  Kinmont  Wil- 
lie, 
.  "I've  pricked  a  horse  out  o'er  the  furs,^ 
But  since  the  day  I  backed  a  steed 
I  never  wore  sic  cumbrous  spurs." 

We  scarce  had  won  the  Staneshaw-bank, 
When  a'  the  Carlisle  bells  were  rung. 

And  a  thousand  men,  in  horse  and  foot. 
Came  wi'  the  keen  Lord  Scroop  along. 

Buccleuch  has  turned  to  Eden  Water, 
Even    where    it    flowed    from   bank   to 
brim,  170 

And  he  has  plunged  in  wi'  a*  his  band, 
And    safely    swam    them    through    the 
stream. 

1  fleyd.  Put  to  flight. 

2  speir.     Ask. 

3  hent.  Seized. 

4  mail.  Rent. 

5  wood.     Mad. 

6  furs.  Ground  (furrows). 


He  turned  him  on  the  other  side. 
And  at  Lord  Scroop  his  glove  flung  he : 

"If  ye  like  na  my  visit  in  merry  England, 
In   fair  Scotland  come  visit  me!" 

All  sore  astonished  stood  Lord  Scroop, 
He  stood  as  still  as  rock  of  stane; 

He  scarcely  dared  to  trow''  his  eyes  179 
When  through  the  water  they  had  gane. 

"He  is  either  himsel  a  devil  frae  hell. 
Or  else  his  mother  a  witch  maun^  be; 

I  would  na  have  ridden  that  wan^  water 
For  a'  the  gold  in  Christentie."^" 


THE   TWA   SISTERS 

[The  refrain  in  the  first  stanza,  which  is  sup- 
posed to  be  repeated  in  all  the  others,  is  of  the 
irrelevant  sort  which  merely  gives  evidence  of 
the  ballad's  having  been  sung  to  a  familiar 
tune.] 

There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr, 

Edinbro,  Edinbro, 
There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr, 

Stirling  for  aye. 
There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr, 
There  came  a  knight  to  be  their  wooer. 

Bonny  St.  Johnston  stands  upon  Tay. 

He  courted  the  eldest  wi  glove  an  ring, 
But  he  lovd  the  youngest  above  a'  thing. 

He   courted   the   eldest    wi    brotchii    an 
knife,  10 

But  he  lovd  the  youngest  as  his  life. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair,i2 
An  much  envi'd  her  sister  fair. 

Upon  a  morning  fair  an  clear, 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear: 

"O  sister,  come  to  yon  sea  stran. 

An  see  our  father's  ships  come  to  Ian." 

She's  taen  her  by  the  milk-white  han. 
An  led  her  down  to  yon  sea  stran. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane,  20 

The  eldest  came  and  threw  her  in. 

She  took  her  by  the  middle  sma. 

An  dashd  her  bonnie  back  to  the  jaw.^' 

7  troiv.     Trust. 

8  maun.      Must. 

9  wan.      Dark. 

10  Chrislentie.     Christendom. 

11  hrotch.     Brooch. 

12  sair.     Sorely. 

13  Threw  her  backward  into  the  water. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


9 


"O  sister,  sister,  tak  my  han, 

An  Ise^  mack  you  heir  to  a'  my  Ian. 

"O  sister,  sister,  save  my  life, 

And  I  swear  Ise  never  be  nae  man's  wife." 

"Foul  i^"  the  han  that  I  should  tacke, 
It  twind  me  an  my  warldes  make.^ 

"Your  cherry  cheeks  an  yallow  hair      30 
Gars*  me  gae  maiden  for  evermair." 

Sometimes    she    sank,    an   sometimes    she 

swam, 
Till  she  came  down  yon  bonny  mill-dam. 

O  out  it  came  the  miller's  son. 
An  saw  the  fair  maid  swimmin  in. 

"O  father,   father,  draw  your  dam. 
Here's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  swan." 

The  miller  quickly  drew  the  dam. 
And  there  he  found  a  drownd  woman. 

You  coudna  see  her  yallow  hair  40 

For  gold  and  pearle  that  were  so  rare. 

You  coudna  see  her  middle  sma 
For  gouden  girdle  that  was  sae  braw.' 

You  coudna  see  her  fingers  white 
For  gouden  rings  that  was  sae  gryte.^ 

An  by  there  came  a  harper  fine, 
That  harped  to  the  king  at  dine. 

When  he  did  look  that  lady  upon, 
He  sighed  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

He's  taen  three  locks  o'  her  yallow  hair. 
An  wi  them  strung  his  harp  sae  fair.      51 

The  first  tune  he  did  play  and  sing. 
Was,  "Farewell  to  my  father  the  king." 

The  nextin  tune  that  he  playd  syne,^ 
Was,  "Farewell  to  my  mother  the  queen." 

The  lasten  tune  that  he  played  then. 
Was,  "Wae  to  my  sister,  fair  Ellen." 

1  Jse.     I  will. 

2  Foul  fa.     Evil  befall. 

3  If  it  separated  me  from  my  earthly  mate. 

4  Gars.     Makes. 

5  braw.     Fine. 

6  gryle.     Great. 

7  syne.     Afterward. 


AGINCOURT 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 
(From  Henry  V) 

[In  1415  Henry  V  of  England,  prosecuting  a 
claim  to  the  French  throne,  landed  in  France 
with  an  invading  army.  He  met  the  French 
forces,  far  superior  in  numbers  to  his  own.  at 
Agincourt,  ana  on  October  25  decisively  defeated 
the  Constable  of  France.] 


Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on 
fire, 

And  silken  dalliance  1  in  the  wardrobe 
lies. 

Now  thrive  the  armorers,  and  honor's 
thought 

Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man. 

They  sell  the  pasture  now  to  buy  the 
horse. 

Following  the  mirror  of  all  Christian 
kings. 

With  winged  heels,  as  English  Mercuries. 

For  now  sits  Expectation  in  the  air. 

And  hides  a  sword  from  hilts  unto  the 
point 

With  crowns  imperial,  crowns  and  coro- 
nets, 10 

Promised  to  Harry  and  his  followers. 

The  French,  advised  by  good  intelligence 

Of  this  most  dreadful  preparation, 

Shake  in  their  fear,  and  with  pale  policy 

Seek  to   divert  the  English  purposes. 

O  England !  model  to  thy  inward  great- 
ness. 

Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, 

What  mightst  thou  do,  that  honor  would 
thee  do, 

Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural ! 


Suppose  that  you  have  seen 
The  well-appointed  king  at  Hampton  pier 
Embark  his  royalty,  and  his  brave  fleet 
With  silken  streamers  the  young  Phoebus 
fanning.  22 

Play  with  your  fancies,  and  in  them  be- 
hold 
Upon  the  hempen  tackle  ship-boys  climb- 
ing; 
Hear  the  shrill  whistle  which  doth  order 

give 
To  sounds  confused;  behold  the  threaden 

sails. 
Borne    with    the    invisible    and    creeping 
wind, 

I  dalliance.     The  life  of  ease  which  silken  gar- 
ments represent. 


10 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  fur- 
rowed sea, 

Breasting  the  lofty  surge.  O,  do  but 
think 

You  stand  upon  the  Tivage^  and  behold 

A  city  on  the  inconstant  billows  dancing; 

For  so  appears  this  fleet  majestical,        32 

Holding  due  course  to  Harfleur.  Follow, 
follow ! 

Grapple  your  minds  to  sternage^  of  this 
navy, 

And  leave  your  England,  as  dead  mid- 
night still, 

Guarded  with  grandsires,  babies,  and  old 
women. 

Either  past  or  not  arrived  to  pith  and 
puissance. 

For  who  is  he,  whose  chin  is  but  en- 
riched 

With  one  appearing  hair,  that  will  not 
follow 

These  culled  and  choice-drawn  cavaliers 
to   France  ?  40 

Work,  work  your  thoughts,  and  therein 
see  a  siege; 

Behold  the  ordnance  on  their  carriages. 

With  fatal  mouths  gaping  on  girded  Har- 
fleur. 

Suppose  the  ambassador  from  the  French 
comes  back. 

Tells  Harry  that  the  King  doth  offer  him 

Katharine  his  daughter,  and  with  her,  to 
dowry. 

Some  petty  and  unprofitable  dukedoms. 

The  offer  likes  not ;  and  the  nimble  gunner 

With  linstock  now  the  devilish  cannon 
touches. 

And  down  goes  all  before  them.  50 

III 

Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time 

When  creeping  murmur  and  the  poring' 
dark 

Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 

From  camp  to  camp  through  the  foul 
womb   of    night 

The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds, 

That  the  fixed  sentinels  almost  receive 

The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's 
watch ; 

Fire  answers  fire,  and  through  their  paly 
flames 

Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umbered  face; 

Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boast- 
ful neighs  60 

1  rivage.     Shore. 

2  to  sternage.     To  follow  at  the  stem. 

3  poring.     Brooding. 


Piercing  the  night's  dull  ear;  and   from 

the  tents 
The  armorers,  accomplishing*  the  knights. 
With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up. 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 
The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do 

toll. 
And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning 

name. 
Proud  of  their  numbers,   and  secure   in 

soul. 
The  confident  and  over-lusty  French 
Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice; 
And  chide  the  cripple  tardy-gaited  Night 
Who,  like  a   foul   and  ugly   witch,   doth 

limp  71 

So  tediously  away.    The  poor  condemned 

English, 
Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 
Sit  patiently  and  inly  ruminate 
The  morning's  danger;  and  their  gesture 

sad, 
Investing^  lank-lean  cheeks  and  war-worn 

coats. 
Presented  them  unto  the  gazing  moon 
So  many  horrid  ghosts,    O  now,  who  will 

behold 
The  royal  captain  of  this  ruined  band 
Walking  from  watch  to  watch,  from  tent 

to  tent,  80 

Let  him   cry,  "Praise  and  glory  on  his 

head !" 
For  forth  he  goes  and  visits  all  his  host, 
Bids  them  good  morrow  with  a  modest 

smile, 
And   calls    them   brothers,    friends,   and 

countrymen. 
Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note 
How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him; 
Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  color 
Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night, 
But  freshly  looks,  and  over-bears  attaint^ 
With  cheerful  semblance  and  sweet  maj- 
esty ;  90 
That  every  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before. 
Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his 

looks. 
A  largess  universal  like  the  sun 
His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one, 
Thawing  cold  fear,  that  mean  and  gentle 

all 
Behold,  as  may  unworthiness  define,'' 
A  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night. 

4  accomplishing.     Equipping. 

5  Investing.     Accompanying,  pervading. 

6  attaint.     Fatigue. 

7  So  far  as  our  unworthiness  can  show  it. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


11 


IV 

Now  we  bear  the  King 
Toward   Calais;   grant  him  there;   there 

seen 
Heave    him    away    upon    your    winged 

thoughts  100 

Athwart   the   sea.     Behold,    the    English 

beach 
Pales  in  the  flood  with  men,  with  wives 

and  boys, 
Whose    shouts    and    claps    out-voice    the 

deep-mouthed  sea, 
Which  like  a  mighty  whifHer^  'fore  the 

King 
Seems  to  prepare  his  way.     So  let  him 

land, 
And  solemnly  see  him  set  on  to  London. 
So  swift  a  pace  hath  thought  that  even 

now 
You  may  imagine  him  upon  Blackheath, 
Where  that  his  lords  desire  him  to  have 

borne  109 

His  bruised  helmet  and  his  bended  sword 
Before  him  through  the  city.    He  forbids 

,it. 
Being  free  from  vainness  and  self-glori- 
ous pride; 
Giving  full  trophy,  signal,  and  ostent^ 
Quite  from  himself  to  God.    But  now  be- 
hold, 
In  the  quick  forge  and  working-house  of 

thought, 
How  London  doth  pour  out  her  citizens! 
The  mayor  and  all  his  brethren  in  best 

sort, 
Like  to  the  senators  of  the  antique  Rome, 
With    the    plebeians    swarming    at    their 

heels, 
Go  forth  and  fetch  their  conquering  Caesar 

in.  120 

(1600) 


AGINCOURT 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance; 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 

I  U'hiffler.     Herald, 
a  oslent.     Display. 


And  taking  many  a  fort, 

Furnished  in  warlike  sort,  10 

Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing,  day  by  day. 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride. 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  King  sending;  20 

Which  he  neglects  the  while. 
As  from  a  nation  vile. 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men. 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then : 
"Though  they  to  me  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed ! 
Yet  have  we  well  begun : 
Battles  so  bravely  won  30 

Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  Fame  been  raised ! 

"And  for  myself,"  quoth  he, 
"This  my  full  rest^  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me ! 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain; 
Never  shall  She  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me !  40 

"Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell. 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is. 
Than  when  our  Grandsire  great,* 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies."  ^ 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vanward  led; 
With  the  main,  Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  henchmen : 
Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there ! 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen  1 

3  rest.     Resolution. 

4  Edward  IH. 

5  lilies.     The  national  flower  of  France. 


12 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


They  now  to  fight  are  gone ; 
Armour  on  armour  shone ; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan : 

To  hear,  was  wonder; 
That,  with  the  cries  they  make, 
The  very  earth  did  shake; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake; 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces! 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly. 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong; 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpent  stung. 

Piercing  the  weather. 
None  from  his  fellow  starts; 
But,  playing  manly  parts. 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilboes^  drew. 
And  on  the  French  they  flew : 

Not  one  was  tardy. 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent. 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went : 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  King, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding,^ 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent ; 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent. 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloucester,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright. 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another! 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford,  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 
Still  as  they  ran  up. 

1  bilboes.     Swords. 

2  ding.     Beat. 


60 


70 


80 


90 


100 


Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply ; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby  1 10 

Bare  them  right  doughtily; 
Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
P'ought  was  this  noble  fray; 
Which  Fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry. 
O  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry?  120 

(1606) 


NYMPHIDIA:  THE  COURT  OF 
FAERY 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

[A  mock  epic,  in  which  Drayton  playfully  min- 
gles the  fairy  lore  of  the  romances  with  the 
classical  mythology  of  earlier  literature.  A  part 
of  the  story,  relating  certain  adventures  of 
Oberon  and  Puck,  is  omitted  here.] 

Old  Chaucer  doth  of  Thopas  tell, 
Mad  Rabelais  of  Pantagruel, 
A  later  third  of  Dowsabel, 

With  such  poor  trifles  playing: 
Others  the  like  have  labored  at. 
Some  of  this  thing,  and  some  of  that, 
And  many  of  they  know  not  what, 

But  that  they  must  be  saying. 

Another  sort  there  be,  that  will 

Be  talking  of  the  fairies  still,  10 

Nor  never  can  they  have  their  fill 

As  they  were  wedded  to  them : 
No  tales  of  them  their  thirst  can  slake, 
So  much  delight  therein  they  take. 
And  some  strange  thing  they  fain  would 
make, 

Knew  they  the  way  to  do  them. 

Then  since  no  Muse  hath  been  so  bold, 
Or  of  the  later  or  the  old,^ 
Those  elvish  secrets  to  unfold, 

Which  lie  from  others'  reading,  20 

My  active  Muse  to  light  shall  bring 
The  court  of  that  proud  Fairy  King, 
And  tell  there  of  the  reveling: 

Jove  prosper  my  proceeding! 

And  thou  Nymphjdia,  gentle  Fay, 
Which,  meeting  me  upon  the  way, 
These  secrets  didst  to  me  bewray,* 
Which  now  I  am  in  telling: 

3  Either  of  modem  or  ancient  poets. 

4  bewray.     Reveal. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


13 


My  pretty  light  fantastic  maid, 
I  here  invoke  to  thee  my  aid,  30 

That  I  may  speak  what  thou  hast  said. 
In  numbers  smoothly  swelling. 

This  palace  standeth  in  the  air, 
By  necromancy  placed  there, 
That  it  no  tempests  needs  to  fear, 

Which  way  soe'er  it  blow  it : 
And    somewhat    southward,    toward    the 

noon, 
Whence  lies  a  way  up  to  the  moon, 
And  thence  the  fairy  can  as  soon 

Pass  to  the  earth  below  it.  40 

The  walls  of  spiders'  legs  are  made. 
Well  morticed  and  finely  laid, — 
He  was  the  master  of  his  trade. 

It  curiously  that  builded ; 
The  windows  of  the  eyes  of  cats. 
And  for  the  roof,  instead  of  slats, 
Is  covered  with  the  skins  of  bats. 

With  moonshine  that  are  gilded. 

Hence  Oberon,  him  sport  to  make 
(Their  rest  when  weary  mortals  take,      50 
And  none  but  only  fairies  wake), 

Descendeth  for  his  pleasure; 
And  Mab,  his  merry  Queen,  by  night 
Bestrides  young  folks  that  lie  upright^ 
(In  elder  times  the  Mare  that  hight),^ 

Which  plagues  them  out  of  measure. 

Hence  shadows,  seeming  idle  shapes. 

Of  little  frisking  elves  and  apes, 

To  earth  do  make  their  wanton  scapes, 

As  hope  of  pastime  hastes  them ;         60 
Which  maids  think  on  the  hearth  they  see. 
When  fires  well-near  consumed  be. 
There  dancing  hayes^  by  two  and  three, 

Just  as  their  fancy  casts*  them. 

These  make  our  girls  their  sluttery  rue,^ 
By  pinching  them  both  black  and  blue, 
And  put  a  penny  in  their  shoe 

The  house  for  cleanly  sweeping; 
And   in  their  courses  make  that  round.^ 
In  meadows  and  in  marshes  found,  70 

Of  them  so  called  the  "fairy  ground," 

Of  which  they  have  the  keeping. 

But  listen,  and  I  shall  you  tell 
A  chance  in  Fairy'^  that  befell, 
Which  certainly  may  please  some  well, 
In  love  and  arms  delighting: 

1  upright.     On  their  backs. 

2  hight.     Was  called. 

3  hayes.     Reels. 

4  casts.     Inclines. 

5  their  sluttery  rue.     Repent  their  untidiness. 

6  round.     Circle  (the  "fairy  ring"). 

7  Fairy.     Fairyland. 


Of  Oberon,  that  jealous  grew 
Of  one  of  his  own  fairy  crew. 
Too  well  (he  feared)  his  queen  that  knew, 
His  love  but  ill  requiting.  80 

Pigwiggen  was  this  fairy  knight, 

One  wondrous  gracious  in  the  sight 

Of  fair  Queen  Mab,  which  day  and  night 

He  amorously  observed; 
Which  made  King  Oberon  suspect 
His  service  took  too  good  effect. 
His  sauciness  and  often  checked,^ 

And  could  have  wished  him  starved. ^ 

Pigwiggen  gladly  would  commend 

Some  token  to  Queen  Mab  to  send,        90 

If  sea  or  land  him  aught  could  lend. 

Were  worthy  of  her  wearing. 
At  length  this  lover  doth  devise 
A  bracelet  made  of  emmets'  eyes, 
A  thing  he  thought  that  she  would  prize, 

No  whit  her  state  impairing. 

And  to  the  Queen  a  letter  writes, 
Which  he  most  curiously  indites. 
Conjuring  her  by  all  the  rites 

Of  love,  she  would  be  pleased  100 

To  meet  him,  her  true  servant,  where 
They  might  without  suspect  of  fear 
Themselves  to  one  another  clear. 

And  have  their  poor  hearts  eased, 

"At  midnight  the  appointed  hour. 
And  for  the  Queen  a  fitting  bower," 
Quoth  he,  "is  that  fair  cowslip  flower, 

On  Hipcut  Hill  that  groweth. 
In  all  your  train  there's  not  a  fay 
That  ever  went  to  gather  May,^*^  no 

But  she  hath  made^i  it  in  her  way, — 

The  tallest  there  that  groweth." 

When  by  Tom  Thumb,  a  fairy  page, 
He  sent  it,  and  doth  him  engage, 
By  promise  of  a  mighty  wage. 

It  secretly  to  carry : 
Which  done,  the   Queen  her  maids  doth 

call, 
And  bids  them  to  be  ready  all, 
She  would  go  see  her  summer  hall, — 

She  could  no  longer  tarry.  120 

Her  chariot  ready  straight  is  made, 
Each  thing  therein  is  fitting  laid, 
That  she  by  nothing  might  be  stayed, 
For  naught  must  her  be  letting.12 

8  And  often  rebuked  his  sauciness. 

9  starved.     Dead. 

10  May.     May-blossoms  (hawthorn). 

11  made.     Arranged  to  pass. 

12  letting.     Hindering. 


14 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Four  nimble  gnats  the  horses  were, 
Their  harnesses  of  gossamer, 
Fly  Cranion,  her  charioteer, 
Upon  the  coach-box  getting. 

Her  chariot  of  a  snail's  fine  shell, 
Which  for  the  colors  did  excel;  130 

The  fair  Queen  Mab  becoming  well, 

So  lively  was  the  limning  ;i 
The  seat  the  soft  wool  of  the  bee, 
The  cover  (gallantly  to  see) 
The  wing  of  a  pied  butterflee, — 

I  trow  'twas  simple  trimming. 

The  wheels  composed  of  crickets'  bones, 
And  daintily  made  for  the  nonce  ;2 
For  fear  of  rattling  on  the  stones, 

With  thistle-down  they  shod  it ;         140 
For  all  her  maidens  much  did  fear, 
If  Oberon  had  chanced  to  hear 
That   Mab  his   Queen   should  have  been 
there. 

He  would  not  have  abode^  it. 

She  mounts  her  chariot  with  a  trice, 
Nor  would  she  stay  for  no  advice. 
Until  her  maids,  that  were  so  nice,* 

To  wait  on  her  were  fitted, 
But  ran  herself  away  alone;  149 

Which  when  they  heard,  there  was  not  one 
But  hasted  after  to  be  gone, 

As  she  had  been  diswitted. 

Hop,  and  Mop,  and  Drap  so  clear, 
Pip,  and  Trip,  and  Skip,  that  were 
To  Mab  their  sovereign  ever  dear. 

Her  special  maids  of  honor; 
Fib,  and  Tib,  and  Pink,  and  Pin, 
Tick,  and  Quick,  and  Jill,  and  Jin, 
Tit,  and  Nit,  and  Wap,  and  Win, 

The  train  that  wait  upon  her.  160 

Upon  a  grasshopper  they  got, 

And  what  with  amble  and  with  trot. 

For  hedge  nor  ditch  they  spared  not, 

But  after  her  they  hie  them. 
A  cobweb  over  them  they  throw. 
To  shield  the  wind  if  it  should  blow; 
Themselves  they  wisely  could  bestow,^ 

Lest  any  should  espy  them. 

But  let  us  leave  Queen  Mab  awhile,  160 
Through  many  a  gate,  o'er  many  a  stile. 
That  now  had  gotten,  by  this  wile, 

I  limning.     Painting. 

3  nonce.     Occasion  (formerly  written  nones,  and 
probably  intended  to  be  so  read  here). 

3  abode.     Endured. 

4  nice.     Scrupulous. 

5  bestow.     Dispose  of. 


Her  dear  Pigwiggen  kissing. 
And  tell  how  Oberon  doth  fare. 
Who  grew  as  mad  as  any  hare, 
When  he  had  sought  each  place  with  care, 

And  found  his  Queen  was  missing. 


The  Queen,  bound  with  love's  powerful 

charm. 
Sat  with  Pigwiggen  arm  in  arm ; 
Her  merry  maids,  that  thought  no  harm. 

About  the  room  were  skipping.  180 

A  humble-bee,  their  minstrel,  played 
Upon  his  hautbois;^  every  maid 
Fit  for  this  revel  was  arrayed. 

The  hornpipe  neatly  tripping. 

In  comes  Nymphidia,  and  doth  cry, 
"My  sovereign,  for  your  safety  fly ! 
For  there  is  danger  but  too  nigh; 

I  posted'^  to  forewarn  you. 
The  King  hath  sent  Hobgoblin  out, 
To  seek  you  all  the  fields  about,  190 

And  of  your  safety  you  may  doubt. 

If  he  but  once  discern  you." 

When,  like  an  uproar  in  a  town. 
Before  them  every  thing  went  down ; 
Some  tore  a  ruff,  and  some  a  gown, 

'Gainst  one  another  jostling; 
They  flew  about  like  chaff  i'  the  wind ; 
For  haste  some  left  their  masks  behind, — 
Some  could  not  stay  their  gloves  to  find ; 

There  never  was  such  bustling.         200 

Forth  ran  they  by  a  secret  way. 

Into  a  brake^  that  near  them  lay. 

Yet  much  they  doubted  there  to  stay, 

Lest   Hob  should  hap  to  find  them : — 
He  had  a  sharp  and  piercing  sight. 
All  one  to  him  the  day  or  night, 
And  therefore  were  resolved  by  flight 

To  leave  this  place  behind  them. 

At  length  one  chanced  to  find  a  nut. 
In  th'  end  of  which  a  hole  was  cut,    210 
Which  lay  upon  a  hazel  root. 

There  scattered  by  a  squirrel, 
Which  out  the  kernel  gotten  had ; 
When   quoth    this    fay,    "Dear   queen,   be 

glad. 
Let  Oberon  be  ne'er  so  mad. 

I'll  set  you  safe  from  peril. 

6  hauthois.     Oboe. 

7  posted.     Hurried. 

8  brake.     Fern. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


15 


"Come  all  into  this  nut,"  quoth  she ; 
"Come  closely  in,  be  ruled  by  me; 
Each  one  may  here  a  chooser  be, 

For  room  ye  need  not  wrestle,  220 

Nor  need  ye  be  together  heaped." 
So  one  by  one  therein  they  crept. 
And  lying  down,  they  soundly  slept, 

And  safe  as  in  a  castle. 


But  leave  we  Hob  to  clamber  out, 
Queen  Mab  and  all  her  fairy  rout, 
And  come  again  to  have  a  bout 

With  Oberon  yet  madding; 
And  with  Pigwiggen,  now  distraught,  229 
Who  much  was  troubled  in  his  thought, 
That  he  so  long  the  Queen  had  sought. 

And  through  the  fields  was  gadding. 

And  as  he  runs,  he  still  doth  cry, 

"King  Oberon,  I  thee  defy, 

And  dare  thee  here  in  arms  to  try, 

For  my  dear  lady's  honor ; 
For  that  she  is  a  queen  right  good. 
In  whose  defense  I'll  shed  my  blood, 
And  that  thou  in  this  jealous  mood 

Hast  laid  this  slander  on  her;"         240 

And  quickly  arms  him  for  the  field, 
A  little  cockle-shell  his  shield. 
Which  he  could  very  bravely  wield. 

Yet  it  could  not  be  pierced ; 
His  spear  a  bent^  both  stiff  and  strong, 
And  well-near  of  two  inches  long, — 
The  pile2  was  of  a  horse-fly's  tongue, 

Whose  sharpness  naught  reversed;^ 

And  puts  him  on  a  coat  of  mail. 
Which  was  of  a  fish's  scale,  250 

That  when  his  foe  should  him  assail, 

No  point  should  be  prevailing. 
His  rapier  was  a  hornet's  sting, — 
It  was  a  very  dangerous  thing. 
For  if  he  chanced  to  hurt  the  king. 

It  would  be  long  in  healing. 

His  helmet  was  a  beetle's  head, 
Most  horrible  and  full  of  dread. 
That  able  was  to  strike  one  dead, 

Yet  it  did  well  become  him;  260 

And  for  a  plume,  a  horse's  hair. 
Which,  being  tossed  by  the  air. 
Had  force  to  strike  his  foe  with  fear, 

And  turn  his  weapon  from  him. 

r  bent.     Grass-stalk. 

2  pile.     Spear-head. 

3  reversed.     Turned. 


Himself  he  on  an  earwig  set, 
Yet  scarce  he  on  his  back  could  get. 
So  oft  and  high  he  did  curvet, 

E'er  he  himself  could  settle; 
He  made  him  turn,  and  stop  and  bound. 
To  gallop,  and  to  trot  the  round, —       270 
He  scarce  could  stand  on  any  ground. 

He  was  so  full  of  mettle. 

When  soon  he  met  with  Tomalin, 
One  that  a  valiant  knight  had  been. 
And  to  great  Oberon  of  kin. 

Quoth  he,  "Thou  manly  fairy. 
Tell  Oberon  I  come  prepared, 
Then  bid  him  stand  upon  his  guard ; 
This  hand  his  baseness  shall  reward. 

Let  him  be  ne'er  so  wary.  280 

"Say  to  him  thus,  That  I  defy 
His  slanders  and  his  infamy, 
And  as  a  mortal  enemy 

Do  publicly  proclaim  him; 
Withal,  that  if  I  had  mine  own. 
He  should  not  wear  the  Fairy  crown. 
But  with  a  vengeance  should  come  down, 

Nor  we  a  king  should  name  him." 

This  Tomalin  could  not  abide 

To  hear  his  sovereign  vilified,  290 

But  to  the  Fairy  court  him  hied. 

Full  furiously  he  posted. 
With  every  thing  Pigwiggen  said, — 
How  title  to  the  crown  he  laid. 
And  in  what  arms  he  was  arrayed. 

And  how  himself  he  boasted. 

'Twixt  head  and  foot,  from  point  to  point. 

He  told  the  arming  of  each  joint. 

In  every  piece  how  neat  and  quaint, — 

For  Tomalin  could  do  it,—  300 

How  fair  he  sat,  how  sure  he  rid. 
As  of  the  courser  he  bestrid, 
How  managed,  and  how  well  he  did. 

The  King,  which  listened  to  it. 

Quoth  he,  "Go,  Tomalin,  with  speed. 
Provide  me  arms,  provide  my  steed. 
And  every  thing  that  I  shall  need; 

By  thee  I  will  be  guided. 
To  straight  account  call  thou  thy  wit. 
See  there  be  wanting  not  a  whit,  310 

In  every  thing  see  thou  me  fit. 

Just  as  my  foe's  provided." 

Soon  flew  this  news  through  Fairyland, 
Which  gave  Queen  Mab  to  understand 
The  combat  that  was  then  in  hand 
Betwixt  those  men  so  mighty ; 


16 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Which  greatly  she  began  to  rue. 
Perceiving  that  all  Fairy  knew 
The  first  occasion  from  her  grew^ 
Of  these  affairs  so  weighty.  320 

Wherefore,  attended  with  her  maids, 
Through  fogs  and  mists  and  damps  she 

wades, 
To  Proserpine,  the  Queen  of  shades, 

To  treat^  that  it  would  please  her 
The  cause  into  her  hands  to  take, 
For  ancient  love  and  friendship's  sake. 
And  soon  thereof  an  end  to  make, 

Which  of  much  care  would  ease  her. 


A  while  there  let  we  Mab  alone, 

And  come  we  to  King  Oberon,  330 

Who  armed  to  meet  his  foe  is  gone. 

For  proud  Pigwiggen  crying. 
Who  sought  the  Fairy  King  as  fast. 
And  had  so  well  his  journeys  cast^ 
That  he  arrived  at  the  last, 

His  puissant  foe  espying. 


Stout  Tomalin  came  with  the  King, 
Tom  Thumb  doth  on  Pigwiggen  bring. 
That  perfect  were  in  every  thing 

To  single  fights  belonging;  340 

And  therefore  they  themselves   engage 
To  see  them  exercise  their  rage 
With  fair  and  comely  equipage. 

Not  one  the  other  wronging. 


So  like  in  arms  these  champions  were. 
As  they  had  been  a  very  pair. 
So  that  a  man  would  almost  swear 

That  either  had  been  either ; 
Their  furious  steeds  began  to  neigh. 
That  they  were  heard  a  mighty  way;      350 
Their  staves  upon  their  rests  they  lay; 

Yet,  e'er  they  flew  together, 

Their  seconds  minister  an  oath, 
Which  was  indifferent*  to  them  both, 
That,  on  their  knightly  faith  and  troth, 

No  magic  them  supplied. 
And    sought^    them,    that    they    had    no 

charms 
Wherewith  to  work  each  other's  harms, 
But  came  with  simple  open  arms 

To  have  their  causes  tried.  360 

1  The  oriRinal  cause  lay  in  her. 

2  treat.      Entreat. 

3  cast.   Planned. 

4  indifferent.     Identical. 

5  souiihl.     Searched. 


Together  furiously  they  ran, 

That  to  the  ground  came  horse  and  man; 

The  blood  out  of  their  helmets  span,^ 

So  sharp  were  their  encounters ; 
And  though  they  to  the  earth  were  thrown, 
Yet  quickly  they  regained  their  own, — 
Such  nimbleness  was  never  shown, — 

They  were  two  gallant  mounters.'' 

When  in  a  second  course  again 
They    forward    came    with    might    and 
main,  370 

Yet  which  had  better  of  the  twain. 

The  seconds  could  not  judge  yet; 
Their  shields  were  into  pieces  cleft. 
Their  helmets  from  their  heads  were  reft. 
And  to  defend  them  nothing  left; 

These  champions  would  not  budge  yet. 

Away  from  them  their  staves  they  threw, 
Their  cruel  swords  they  quickly  drew, 
And  freshly  they  the  fight  renew, — 

They  every  stroke  redoubled ;  380 

Which  made  Proserpina  take  heed. 
And  make  to  them  the  greater  speed, 
For  fear  lest  they  too  much  should  bleed. 

Which  wondrously  her  troubled. 

When  to  th'  infernal  Styx^  she  goes, 
She  takes  the  fogs  from  thence  that  rose, 
And  in  a  bag  doth  them  enclose. 

When  well  she  had  them  blended; 
She  hies  her  then  to  Lethe  spring, 
A  bottle  and  thereof  doth  bring,  390 

Wherewith  she  meant  to  work  the  thing 

Which  only  she  intended. 

Now  Proserpine  with  Mab  is  gone 
Unto  the  place  where  Oberon 
And  proud  Pigwiggen,  one  to  one. 

Both  to  be  slain  were  likely; 
And  there  themselves  they  closely  hide. 
Because  they  would  not  be  espied; 
For  Proserpine  meant  to  decide 

The  matter  very  quickly.  400 

And  suddenly  imties  the  poke,^ 
Which  out  of  it  sent  such  a  smoke, 
As  ready  was  them  all  to  choke. 

So  grievous  was  the  pother; 
So  that  the  knights  each  other  lost. 
And  stood  as  still  as  any  post; 
Tom  Thumb  nor  Tomalin  could  boast 

Themselves  of  any  other. 

6  span.     Spurted. 

7  mounters.     Riders. 

8  .Styx.     The  river  of  Hades. 

9  poke.     Bag. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


1^ 


But  when  the  mist  gan  somewhat  cease, 
Proserpina  commandeth  peace,  410 

And  that  awhile  they  should  release 

Each  other  of  their  peril; 
"Which  here,"  quoth  she,  "I  do  proclaim 
To  all,  in  dreadful  Pluto's  name, 
That,  as  ye  will  eschew^  his  blame, 

You  let  me  hear  the  quarrel. 

"But  here  yourselves  you  must  engage 
Somewhat  to  cool  your  spleenish  rage, 
Your  grievous  thirst  and  to  assuage. 

That  first  you  drink  this  liquor,  420 

Which  shall  your  understandings  clear. 
As  plainly  shall  to  you  appear. 
Those  things  from  me  that  you  shall  hear 

Conceiving  much  the  quicker," 

This  Lethe  water,  you  must  know. 
The  memory  destroyeth  so. 
That  of  our  weal  or  of  our  woe 

Is  all  remembrance  blotted ; 
Of  it  nor  can  you  ever  think; 
For  they  no  sooner  took  this  drink,      430 
But  nought  into  their  brains  could  sink 

Of  what  had  them  besotted.^ 

King  Oberon  forgotten  had 
That  he  for  jealousy  ran  mad. 
But  of  his  Queen  was  wondrous  glad, 

And  asked  how  they  came  thither, 
Pigwiggen  likewise  doth  forget 
That  he   Queen  Mab  had  ever  met. 
Or  that  they  were  so  hard  beset. 

When  they  were  found  together.         440 

Nor  either  of  'em  both  had  thought 
That  e'er  they  had  each  other  sought. 
Much  less  that  they  a  combat  fought, 

But  such  a  dream  were  loathing. 
Tom  Thumb  had  got  a  little  sup. 
And  Tomalin  scarce  kissed  the  cup. 
Yet  had  their  brains  so  sure  locked  up 

That  they  remembered  nothing. 

Queen  Mab  and  her  light  maids  the  while 
Among  themselves  do  closely  smile,  450 
To  see  the  King  caught  with  this  wile. 

With  one  another  jesting; 
And  to  the  Fairy  court  they  went. 
With  mickle  joy  and  merriment, 
Which  thing  was  done  with  good  intent; 

And  thus  I  left  them  feasting. 

(1627) 

1  eschew.     Avoid. 

2  besotted.     Made  £ools  of  them. 


THE   RAPE   OF  THE   LOCK 

ALEXANDER  POPE 

[This  poem  deals  with  an  episode  in  the  social 
life  of  Pope's  day.  Lord  Petre  had  playfully 
cut  a  lock  of  hair  from  the  head  of  Miss  Arabella 
Fermor,  and  the  act  resulted  in  resentment  and 
the  estrangement  of  the  two  families.  Caryll,  a 
common  friend,  suggested  to  Pope  the  poetizing 
of  the  incident,  with  the  hope  that  the  ill  feeling 
would _  be  laughed  away.  Pope  developed  the 
story  in  the  manner  of  a  mock  epic,  everywhere 
imitating  the  style  of  the  Iliad  and  the  ALneid 
in  particular.  Thus  the  sylphs  are  introduced  to 
parallel  the  deities  of  the  ancient  epics;  Belinda's 
bodkin  (Canto  5,  lines  88-96)  is  described  in  the 
manner  of  the  historic  sceptre  of  Agamemnon; 
and  the  speeches  are  in  part  modeled  on  epic 
oratory.] 

CANTO   I 

What  dire  oflfence  from  amorous  causes 

springs. 
What   mighty   contests   rise    from   trivial 

things. 
I   sing. — This  verse  to  Caryll,  Muse!   is 

due ; 
This,  e'en  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view. 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 
Say    what    strange    motive,     Goddess! 

could  compel 
A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle? 
Oh,  say  what   stranger  cause,   yet  unex- 
plored. 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  ?     10 
In  tasks  so  bold,  can  little  men  engage. 
And  in  soft  bosoms  dwells   such  mighty 

rage? 
Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  timor- 
ous ray, 
And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the 

day. 
Now  lap-dogs  give  themselves  the  rousing 

shake. 
And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve,  awake. 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knocked 

the  ground, 1 
And  the  pressed  watch  ~  returned  a  silver 

sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  pressed. 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolonged  the  balmy 

rest ;  20 

'Twas  he  had  summoned  to  her  silent  bed 
The  morning  dream  that  hovered  o'er  her 

head ; 
A  youth  more  glittering  than  a  birth-night 

beau,3 
(That  e'en  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek 

to  glow) 

1  To  call  the  lady's  maid. 

2  A  striking  watch. 

3  birth-n%p^i,(  l/equ.  A  beau  at  a  ball,  ou  a  royal 
birthday. 


18 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay, 
And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seemed  to 

say: 
"Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguished 

care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air! 
If    e'er    one    vision    touched    thy    infant 

thought. 
Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have 

taught,  30 

Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen, 
The  silver  token, 1  and  the  circled  green. 
Or  virgins  visited  by  angel  powers, 
With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heav- 
enly flowers; 
Hear   and   believe;    thy   own   importance 

know, 
Nor  bound  thy   narrow   views   to  things 

below. 
Some   secret   truths,    from   learned   pride 

concealed. 
To  maids  alone  and  children  are  revealed. 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may 

give? 
The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe.  40 
Know,    then,    unnumbered    spirits    round 

thee  fly. 
The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky. 
These,   though   unseen,   are    ever   on  the 

wing. 
Hang  o'er  the  box,^  and  hover  round  the 

Ring.3 
Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air. 
And  view   with   scorn   two    pages   and   a 

chair.* 
As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old, 
And  once  enclosed  in  woman's  beauteous 

mould ; 
Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air.      50 
Think  not,  when  woman's  transient  breath 

is  fled. 
That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead ; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards. 
And  though  she  plays  no  more,  o'erlooks 

the  cards. 
Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive. 
And  love  of  ombre.i^  after  death  survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire. 
To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire : 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name. 

1  silver  tokftt.  Silver  pieces  were  said  to  be 
dropped  by  fairies  into  the  shoes  of  deserving 
maidens. 

2  box.     Theatre  box. 

3  Ring.     A  fashionable  walk. 

4  rhair.     Sedan  chair. 

5  ombre.     A  game  of  cards. 


Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away. 

And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea. 

The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a 
gnome,  63 

In   search   of   mischief   still   on   earth  to 
roam. 

The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair. 

And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 
"Know   further  yet :   whoever   fair  and 
chaste 

Rejects  mankind,   is  by  some  sylph   em- 
braced ; 

For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with 
ease 

Assume  what  sexes  and  what  shapes  they 
please.  70 

What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids, 

In  courtly  balls,   and  midnight  masquer- 
ades, 

Safe  from  the  treacherous  friend,  the  dar- 
ing spark,^ 

The   glance  by   day,  the   whisper   in   the 
dark, 

When  kind  occasion  prompts  their  warm 
desires, 

When  music  softens,  and  when   dancing 
fires? 

'Tis   but   their   sylph,   the   wise   celestials 
know, 

Though    honour    is    the    word    with    men 
below. 

Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of 
their  face, 

For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  em- 
brace. 80 

These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their 
pride, 

When    off^ers    are     disdained,     and    love 
denied  : 

Then  gay   ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 

While    peers,    and    dukes,    and    all    their 
sweeping  train. 

And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear. 

And  in  soft  sounds  'Your  Grace'  salutes 
the  ear. 

'Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul. 

Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to 
roll. 

Teach    infant    cheeks    a   bidden    blush    to 
know. 

And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau.      90 
"Oft    when   the  world   imagine   women 
stray. 

The  sylphs   through  mystic  mazes   guide 
their  way, 

Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue. 

And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 
6  spark.     Beau,  gallant. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


19 


What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall 
To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's  ball  ? 
When   Florio   speaks,   what  virgin  could 

withstand, 
If    gentle    Damon    did    not    squeeze   her 

hand? 
With  varying  vanities,  from  every  part, 
They  shift  the  moving  toyshop   of  their 

heart;  lOO 

Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots 

sword-knots  strive. 
Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches 

drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call; 
Oh,  blind  to  truth!  the  sylphs  contrive  it 

all. 
"Of   these   am    I,    who   thy    protection 

claim, 
A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
I  saw,  alas !  some  dread  event  impend, 
Ere  to  the  maini  this  morning  sun  de- 
scend, no 
But  Heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or 

where. 
Warned  by  the  sylph,  O  pious  maid,  be- 
ware! 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can : 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man !" 
He  said ;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she 

slept  too  long. 
Leaped  up,  and  waked  his  mistress  with 

his  tongue. 
'Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true, 
Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a  billet-doux ; 
Wounds,    charms,    and   ardours    were   no 

sooner  read,  119 

But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head. 

And    now,    unveiled,    the    toilet    stands 

displayed, 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed   in  white,   the   nymph   intent 

adores. 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers, 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears. 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she 

rears ; 
Th'  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side. 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered   treasures   ope   at   once,   and 

here 
The  various   offerings   of  the   world   ap- 
pear; 130 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious 

toil. 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering 

spoil. 
I  main.     Ocean. 


This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite. 
Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled,  and 

the  white. 
Here   files   of  pins  extend   their   shining 

rows. 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billets- 
doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms. 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace. 
And  calls    forth  all  the  wonders  of  her 

face ;  142 

Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise. 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy   sylphs    surround   their   darling 

care, 
These  set  the  head,^  and  those  divide  the 

hair, 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait 

the  gown; 
And  Betty's  praised   for  labours  not  her 

own. 

CANTO  II 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main. 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched    on    the    bosom    of    the    silver 

Thames. 
Fair    nymphs    and    well-dressed    youths 

around  her   shone, 
But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she 

wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose. 
Quick    as    her    eyes,    and    as    unfixed    as 

those;  10 

Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright   as   the   sun,  her  eyes   the  gazers 

strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of 

pride. 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults 

to  hide ; 
If  to  her  share  some   female  errors   fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll   forget   'em 

all. 
This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  man- 
kind, 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung 

behind  20 

2  head.     Head-dress. 


20 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  and  smooth  ivory 

neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And   mighty   hearts   are  held   in   slender 

chains. 
With  hairy  springes,  we  the  birds  betray, 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey, 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 
Th'  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks 

admired; 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  as- 
pired. 30 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends,  _ 
Few  ask,  if   fraud  or  force  attained  his 

ends. 
For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  im- 
plored 
Propitious     Heaven,     and     every     power 

adored, 
But  chiefly  Love;  to  Love  an  altar  built, 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly 

gilt. 
There   lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of 

gloves,  39 

And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves; 
With    tender    billets-doux    he    lights    the 

pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise 

the  fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent 

eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize. 
The  powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his 

prayer  ;i 
The  rest   the   winds   dispersed   in   empty 

air. 
But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides. 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating 

tides; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And    softened    sounds    along   the    waters 

die ;  50 

Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently 

play, 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
All  but  the  sylph — with  careful  thoughts 

oppressed, 
Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round   the  sails   re- 
pair; 

I  half  his  prayer.     He  was  to  obtain  the  lock, 
but  not  to  keep  it  long. 


Soft    o'er    the    shrouds    aerial    whispers 

breathe, 
That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  be- 
neath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of 
gold ;  ^  60 

Transparent   forms',  too   fine   for   mortal 

sight. 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose   to  the   wind   their   airy   garments 

flew, 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew,^ 
Dipt  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies, 
Where    light    disports    in    ever-mingling 

dyes. 
While  every  beam  new  transient  colours 

flings. 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave 

their  wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast 
Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed;  70 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun. 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  be- 
gun: 
"Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief 


give  ear 


Fays,    fairies,   genii,    elves,   and    demons, 

hear! 
Ye  know  the  spheres,  and  various  tasks 

assigned 
By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  aether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs 

on  high. 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless 

sky. 
Some  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale 

light  80 

Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the 

night. 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 
Or  brew    fierce   tempests    on   the   wintry 

main, 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain ; 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside, 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions 

guide : 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  o\yn, 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British 

throne.  _  QO 

"Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the 

fair. 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious 

care; 

2  Gossamer  (formerly  supposed  to  be  the  product 
of  dew). 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


21 


To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 

Nor  let  th'  imprisoned  essences  exhale ; 

To  draw  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in 
showers, 

A  brighter  wash;  to  curl  their  waving 
hairs, 

Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs; 

Nay,  oft  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow. 

To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow. 
"This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  bright- 
est fair  loi 

That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care; 

Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  sleight ; 

But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have 
wrapped  in  night. 

Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's 
law. 

Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw; 

Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade; 

Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 

Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball ; 

Or  whether  Heaven  has  doomed  that 
Shock  must  fall.  no 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits!  to  your  charge 
repair ; 

The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care; 

The  drops^  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign ; 

And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine; 

Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favourite 
lock; 

Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 
"To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note, 

We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petti- 
coat: 

Oft  have  we  known  that  seven- fold  fence 
to  fail, 

Tho'  stiff  with  hoops,  and  arm'd  with  ribs 
of  whale;  120 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound. 

And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 
"Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge. 

His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at 
large, 

Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake 
his  sins. 

Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with 
pins; 

Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie. 

Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye; 

Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  re- 
strain, 

While  clogged  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in 
vain;  130 

Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 

Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  rivelled^ 
flower ; 

Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 

1  drops.     Ear-jewels. 

2  rivelled.     Withered. 


The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill,^ 

In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow. 

And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below  !" 
He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails 
descend ; 

Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  ex- 
tend; 

Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair; 

Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her 
ear;  140 

With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they 
wait. 

Anxious  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of 
fate. 

CANTO  III 

Close  by  those  meads,  forever  crowned 
with  flowers. 

Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his 
rising  towers, 

There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic 
frame,* 

Which  from  the  neighbouring  Hampton 
takes  its  name. 

Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  fore- 
doom 

Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at 
home; 

Here  thou,  great  Anna!  whom  three 
realms  obey. 

Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  some- 
times tea. 
Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  re- 
sort, 9 

To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court ; 

In  various  talk  th'  instructive  hours  they 
passed, 

Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last; 

One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 

And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian 
screen ; 

A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and 
eyes; 

At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 

Snuff^,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of 
chat. 

With    singing,   laughing,   ogling,   and    all 
that. 
Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of 
day, 

The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray ; 

The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence 
sign,  21 

And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may 
dine; 

3  Chocolate  was  ground  in  a  hand-mill. 

4  Hampton  Court  Palace. 


22 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  merchant  from  th'  Exchange  returns 

in  peace, 
And  the  long  labours  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites, 
Burns     to     encounter     two     adventurous 

knights, 
At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom;i 
And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet 

to  come. 
Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms 

to  join. 
Each    band    the    number    of    the    sacred 

nine.  30 

Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial 

guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card : 
First,  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then   each,   according   to   the   rank   they 

bore; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient 

race. 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of 

place. 
Behold,  four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard; 
And  four   fair  queens  whose  hands  sus- 
tain a  flower, 
The   expressive   emblem   of   their   softer 

power ;  40 

Four  knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty 

band, 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their 

hand; 
And  parti-coloured  troops,  a  shining  train, 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The   skilful   nymph   reviews   her   force 

with  care : 
Let    spades    be    trumps !    she    said,    and 

trumps  they  were. 
Now  move  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In    show    like    leaders    of    the    swarthy 
,       Moors. 

I  The  next  70  lines  are  descriptive  of  the  game  of 
Ombre — one  of  Spanish  origin,  the  name  meaning 
"Man."  Forty  cards  are  used,  nine  being  dealt, 
the  rest  drawn  for  somewhat  as  in  Pedro.  The 
players  are  usually  three  in  number;  one  makes  the 
trump,  and  the  other  two  combine  against  him. 
If  either  of  them  takes  more  tricks  than  he,  he  is 
defeated,  has  suffered  codille  (see  line  92).  The 
maker  of  trumps  is  "the  man,"  or  "it."  The  order 
of  the  cards  varies  with  the  trump.  The  three 
high  cards,  always  called  spadille,  mar.ille,  and 
basto,  are  "matadores";  that  is,  they  will  slay  any 
other  cards  sent  against  them,  as  a  matadore  slays 
a  bull.  Spadille  is  always  the  ace  of  spades; 
manille  is  the  seven,  if  a  red  suit  is  trump,  or  the 
two,  if  a  black  is  trump;  baslo  is  the  ace  of  clubs. 
Except  as  the  aces  are  matadores,  the  face  cards 
are  all  higher  than  they.  Notice  that  in  line  98 
Belinda  takes  the  ace  of  hearts  with  her  king. 
Lines  30-43  indicate  the  value  of  the  cards. 


Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord ! 

Led  off  two  captive  trumps  and  swept  the 

board.  50 

As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield 
And  marched  a  victor  from  the  verdant 

field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but  his   fate  more 

hard 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian 

card. 
With   his   broad    sabre   next,   a   chief   in 

years. 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears, 
Puts    forth   one   manly   leg,   to   sight  re- 
vealed, 
The    rest    his    many-coloured    robe    con- 
cealed. 
The   rebel  knave,   who   dares   his   prince 

engage,  ^  59 

Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 
E'en  mighty  Pam,^  that  kings  and  queens 

o'erthrew. 
And  mowed  down  armies  in  the  fights  of 

Loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war!  now  destitute  of  aid, 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade! 
Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield ; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades. 
The   imperial    consort   of   the    crown   of 

spades ; 
The  club's  black  tyrant^  first  her  victim 

died. 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien,  and  barbarous 

pride.  70 

What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread ; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous 

robe. 
And,   of   all    monarchs,    only    grasps   the 

globe  ? 
The    baron    now    his    diamonds    pours 

apace ; 
Th'  embroidered  king  who  shows  but  half 

his  face. 
And    his    refulgent    queen,    with    powers 

combined, 
Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder 

seen. 
With  throngs  promiscuous  strew  the  level 

green.  80 

Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs. 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons, 

2  Pant.  The  knave  or  "Jack"  of  clubs;  in  the 
game  of  Loo  he  is  the  highest  card. 

3  black  tyrant.  The  king  of  clubs.  Any  trump 
would  take  any  other  non-trump  card,  the  mata- 
dores being  considered  as  trumps. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


23 


With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye, 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall, 
In  heaps  on  heaps ;  one  fate  o'erwhelms 

them  all. 
The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily 

arts, 
And    wins    (oh    shameful    chance!)    the 

queen  of  hearts. 
At  this  the  blood  the  virgin's  cheek  for- 
sook, 8() 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look; 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching 

ill. 
Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille. 
And   now    (as  oft  in   some   distempered 

state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate. 
An  ace  of   hearts  steps   forth ;   the  king 

unseen 
Lurked  in  her  hand,  and  mourned  his  cap- 
tive queen; 
He   springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager 

pace, 
And   falls   like  thunder  on  the  prostrate 

ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the 

sky; 
The   walls,  the  woods,   and   long   canals 

reply.  loo 

Oh  thoughtless  mortals !  ever  blind  to 

fate. 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden,  these  honours  shall  be  snatched 

away, 
And  cursed  forever  this  victorious  day. 
For  lo !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons 

is  crowned, 
The  berries^  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns 

round ; 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan^  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze; 
From   silver  spouts  the   grateful   liquors 

glide. 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking 

tide:  no 

At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight   hover  round   the    fair   her   airy 

band; 
Some,   as   she   sipped,  the  fuming  liquor 

fanned. 
Some   o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes 

displayed, 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  bro- 
cade. 

I  berries.     Coffee. 

3  altars  of  Japan.     Japanned  tables,  then  much 
in  fashion. 


Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half- 
shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 
Ah,  cease,  rash  youth  !  desist  ere  'tis  too 
late!  121 

Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's^ 

fate! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 
But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their 
will. 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 
Just    then    Clarissa    drew    with    tempting 

grace 
A   two-edged   weapon   from   her   shining 

case: 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight, 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the 
fight.  130 

He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  ex- 
tends 
The  little  engine  on  his  finger's  ends ; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steam  she  bends  her 

head. 
Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back 

the  hair; 
And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in 

her  ear; 
Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe 
drew  near.  138 

Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought ; 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
He  watched  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,   confused,   he    found   his   power 

expired. 
Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 
The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  for- 
fex*  wide, 
T*  inclose  the  lock;  now  joins  it,  to  di- 
vide. 148 
E'en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed : 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph 

in  twain, 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again). * 

3  Scylla.  Daughter  of  Nisus,  king  of  Megara, 
who  pulled  from  her  father's  head  tne  golden  (or 
purple)  hair  upon  which  tne  safety  of  the  city 
depended. 

4  forfex.     Pair  of  scissors. 

5  A  humorous  parallel  to  the  epic  treatment  of 
the  wounding  of  supernatural  beings. 


24 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dis- 
sever 

From  the  fair  head,  forever,  and  forever ! 
Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from 
her  eyes. 

And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  affrighted 
skies. 

Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are 
cast. 

When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe 
their  last; 

Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fallen  from 
high, 

In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments 
lie!  i6o 

"Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  tem- 
ples twine," 

The  victor  cried ;  "the  glorious  prize  is 
mine! 

While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in 
air, 

Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair, 

As  long  as  Atalantis^  shall  be  read, 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed, 

While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days. 

When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  or- 
der blaze. 

While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations 
give, 

So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall 
live !  170 

What  Time  would  spare,  from  steel  re- 
ceives its  date, 2 

And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate ! 

Steel  could  the  labour  of  the  gods  destroy, 

And  strike  to  dust  th*  imperial  towers  of 
Troy ; 

Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  con- 
found. 

And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 

What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph !  thy  hairs 
should  feel 

The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel  ?" 

CANTO  rv 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  op- 
pressed. 
And  secret  passions  laboured  in  her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive. 
Not  scornful  virgins  who  in  their  charms 

survive. 
Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss, 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss. 
Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die. 
Not  Cynthia  when  her  manteau's  pinned 
awry, 

I  Alalantis.     A  popular  romance  of  the  period. 
a  date.     End,  fatal  day. 


E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  de- 
spair, 9 
As  thou,  sad  virgin,  for  thy  ravished  hair. 
For,  that   sad   moment,   when  the   sylphs 

withdrew 
And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite, 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down   to   the   central    earth,    his   proper 

scene. 
Repaired  to  search   the   gloomy  cave  of 
Spleen.3 
Swift    on    his    sooty    pinions    flits    the 
gnome, 
And  in  a  vapour  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No    cheerful    breeze    this    sullen    region 

knows. 
The   dreaded   east   is   all   the   wind   that 
blows.  20 

Here  in  a  grotto,  sheltered  close  from  air. 
And   screened   in   shades   from  day's   de- 
tested glare. 
She  sighs  forever  on  her  pensive  bed. 
Pain   at   her   side,   and   Megrim*   at  her 
head. 
Two  handmaids  wait^  the  throne,  alike 
in  place. 
But  differing  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid, 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  ar- 
rayed ; 
With   stores    of    prayers,    for    mornings, 

nights,  and  noons, 
Her  hand  is  filled;  her  bosom  with  lam- 
poons. 30 
There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien, 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen. 
Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside. 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride. 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe. 
Wrapped  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for 

show. 

The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 

When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new 

disease. 

A  constant  vapour  o'er  the  palace  flies ; 

Strange    phantoms    rising    as    the    mists 

arise ;  40 

Dreadful,  as  hermit's  dreams  in  haunted 

shades. 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 
Now  glaring  fiends,  and  snakes  on  rolling 

spires, 
Pale   spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple 
fires; 

3  Spleen.     Ill  humor. 

4  Megrim.     Low  spirits. 

5  wait.     Attend  upon. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


25 


Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes, 
And    crystal    domes,    and    angels    in    ma- 

chines.i 
Unnumbered  throngs  on  every  side  are 

seen, 
Of  bodies  changed  to  various   forms  by 

Spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held 

out. 
One  bent;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the 

spout.  50 

A    pipkin^    there,    like    Homer's    tripod, 

walks ; 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pie 

talks. 
Safe  passed  the  gnome  through  this  fan- 
tastic band, 
A   branch   of   healing   spleenwort    in    his 

hand. 
Then  thus   addressed   the   power:    "Hail, 

wayward  queen! 
Who  rule  the  sex,  to  fifty  from  fifteen : 
Parent  of  vapours  and  of  female  wit; 
Who  give  th'  hysteric,  or  poetic  fit ; 
On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways. 
Make   some  take   physic,   others   scribble 

plays ;  60 

Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 
And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray. 
A    nymph    there    is,   that    all    thy   power 

disdains. 
And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  main- 
tains. 
But  oh!  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a 

grace, 
Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face. 
Like    citron-waters    matrons'    cheeks    in- 
flame, 
Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game. 
Or   caus'd   suspicion    when    no   soul    was 

rude,  69 

Or  discompos'd  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lap-dog  gave  disease. 
Which    not    the    tears    of    brightest    eyes 

could  ease : 
Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin ; 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the 

spleen." 
The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants 

his  prayer. 
A  wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she 

binds, 
Like  that   where  once   Ulysses   held   the 

winds; 

1  machines.     Stage  machinery. 

2  pipkin.     Earthen  pot. 


There   she   collects   the    force   of    female 

lungs. 
Sighs,  sobs,  and  passions,  and  the  war  of 

tongues.  80 

A  vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears. 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing 

tears ; 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away. 
Spreads    his    black    wings,    and    slowly 

mounts  to  day. 
Sunk  in  Thalestris'^  arm  the  nymph  he 

found, 
Her  eyes  dejected  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he 

rent. 
And  ail  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent.    88 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
"O  wretched  maid !"  she  spread  her  hands 

and  cried, 
(While     Hampton's     echoes,     "Wretched 

maid !"  replied) 
"Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant 

care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare? 
For    this    your    locks    in    paper    durance 

bound. 
For  this   with   torturing   irons    wreathed 

around? 
For  this  with  fillets  strained  your  tender 

head. 
And    bravely    bore    the    double    loads    of 

lead  ?*  98 

Gods!  shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair. 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare ! 
Honour  forbid !  at  whose  unrivalled  shrine 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey. 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  you  say, 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast,^ 
And  all  your  honour  in  a  whisper  lost! 
How   shall   I,    then,   your   helpless    fame 

defend? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend ! 
And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize. 
Exposed    through    crystal    to    the    gazing 

eyes,  1 10 

And  heightened  by  the  diamond's  circling 

rays. 
On  that  rapacious  hand  forever  blaze? 

3  Thalestris.     Stands  for  Mrs.  Morley,  sister  of 
Sir  George  Brown,  the  "Sir  Plume"  of  Une  in. 

4  Lead  curl-papers. 

5  toast.     Subject  of  toasts  at  dinner-parties. 


26 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus^ 

grow, 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of 

Bow;  2 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 
Men,   monkeys,   lap-dogs,   parrots,   perish' 

all!" 
She  said;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  re- 
pairs. 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious 

hairs 
(Sir   Plume,   of    amber   snuff-box   justly 

vain,  119 

And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded^  cane). 
With  earnest  eyes,  and  round  unthinking 

face. 
He  first  the  snuff-box   opened,  then  the 

case, 
And  thus  broke  out — "My  lord,  why,  what 

the  devil? 
Zounds!   damn  the  lock!  'fore  God,  you 

must  be  civil ! 
Plague  on't!  'tis  past  a  jest — nay  prithee, 


pox 


Give  her  the  hair,"  he  spoke,  and  rapped 

his  box. 
"It  grieves   me   much,"   replied   the   peer 

again, 
"Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in 

vain. 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I  swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted 

hair ;  130 

Which  never  more  its  honours  shall  re- 
new. 
Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  late 

it  grew) 
That  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air. 
This   hand,    which   won   it,   shall    forever 

wear." 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph 

spread 
The  long-contended  honours  of  her  head. 
But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome!   forbears 

not  so ; 
He  breaks  the  vial   whence  the   sorrows 

flow. 
Then  see !  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief 

appears. 
Her  eyes  half  languishing,  haff  drowned 

in  tears;  140 

On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping 

head, 
Which,  with  a  sigh,  she  raised;  and  thus 

she  said : 

1  Byde  Park  Circus.     The  "Ring"  of  Canto  i, 
line  44. 

2  Dow.   The  bells  of  the  church  lof  St.  Mary-le- 
Bow,  in  the  heart  of  London. 

3  clouded.     Mottled. 


"Forever  curs'd  be  this  detested  day. 
Which    snatched    my   best,   my    favourite 

curl  away ! 
Happy !  ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been. 
If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never 

seen! 
Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid, 
By  love   of  courts  to  numerous   ills  be- 
trayed. 
Oh,  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle  or  distant  northern  land ; 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never   marks  the 

way,  151 

Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e'er  taste 

bohea  !* 
There   kept    my   charms    concealed    from 

mortal  eye. 
Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
Wliat  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords 

to  roam? 
Oh,  had  I  stayed,  and  said  my  prayers  at 

home! 
'Twas  this,  the  morning  omens  seemed  to 

tell: 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch- 

box5  fell; 
The  tottering  china  shook  without  a  wind ; 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most 

unkind !  160 

A  sylph,  too,  warned  me  of  the  threats  of 

fate. 
In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late ! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted 

hairs ! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  e'en  thy  rapine 

spares ; 
These    in    two    sable   ringlets    taught    to 

break. 
Once    gave   new   beauties    to   the    snowy 

neck; 
The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone, 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own; 
Uncurled   it  hangs,  the   fatal  shears   de- 
mands, 
And   tempts   once   more   thy   sacrilegious 

hands.  170 

Oh,  hadst  thou,  cruel !  been  content  to  seize 
Hairs    less    in   sight,    or   any    hairs   but 

these!" 

CANTO  V 

She  said :  the  pitying  audience  melt  in 
tears. 

But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  bar- 
on's ears. 

4  bohea.     A  kind  of  tea. 

5  patch-box.    Box  for  face-patches. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


27 


In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails, 

For   who    can   move    when    fair    Belinda 
fails? 

Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan^  could  re- 
main, 

While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in 
vain. 

Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her 
fan; 

Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  be- 
gan: 
"Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  hon- 
oured most. 

The   wise    man's   passion,    and   the    vain 
man's  toast?  lo 

Why  decked  with  all  that  land  and  sea 
afford. 

Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored? 

Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white- 
gloved  beaux. 

Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost 
rows? 

How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our 
pains, 

Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty 
gains ; 

That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front- 
box  grace, 

'Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face!* 

Oh !  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day. 

Charmed  the  small-pox,  or  chased  old  age 
away,  20 

Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife's 
cares  produce. 

Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of 
use? 

To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a  saint, 

Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 

But  since,  alas !  frail  beauty  must  decay ; 

Curled  or  uncurled,  since  locks  will  turn 
to  grey; 

Since  painted,  or  not  painted,   all   shall 
fade, 

And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die  a 
maid; 

What  then  remains  but  well  our  power  to 
use. 

And  keep  good  humour  still,  whate'er  we 
lose?  30 

And   trust  me,   dear!   good   humour   can 
prevail. 

When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and 
scolding  fail. 

Beauties   in   vain   their    pretty   eyes   may 
roll; 

Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins 
the  soul." 
I  the  Trojan,     jf^ncas. 


So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  en- 
sued; 
Belinda    frowned,    Thalestris    called    her 

prude. 
"To  arms,  to  arms  I"  the  fierce  virago  cries. 
And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 
All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack; 
Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whale- 
bones crack;  40 
Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confus'dly 

rise, 
And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 
No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are 

found, 
Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal 

wound. 
So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods 

engage, 
And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions 

rage; 
'Gainst    Pallas,    Mars,    Latona,    Hermes 

arms; 
And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms : 
Jove's  thunder  roars,  Heaven  trembles  all 

around, 
Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps 

resound :  50 

Earth    shakes    her    nodding   towers,    the 

ground  gives  way, 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of 

day! 
Triumphant    Umbriel    on    a    sconce's- 

height 
Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view 

the  fight; 
Propped  on  their  bodkin  spears,  the  sprites 

survey 
The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 
While  through  the  press  enraged  Tha- 
lestris flies, 
And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her 

eyes, 
A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng. 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song.  60 
"O  cruel  nymph !  a  living  death  I  bear," 
Cried    Dapperwit,    and    sunk    beside    his 

chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upwards 

cast, 
"Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing"^ — was 

his  last. 
Thus  on  Maeander's  flowery  margin  lies 
Th'  expiring   swan,   and   as   he   sings  he 

dies. 

2  sconce.     Chandelier. 

3  The  words  are  from  a  song  in  a  contemporary 
opera. 


28 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clar- 
issa down, 
Chloe   stepped  in  and  killed  him  with  a 

frown ; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again. 
Now  Jove   suspends  his   golden   scales 

in  air,  7i 

Weighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's 

hair; 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side 

to  side; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs 

subside. 
See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  Baron  flies, 
With   more   than   usual   lightning  in   her 

eyes; 
Nor  feared  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to 

try, 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to 

die. 
But  this   bold  lord  with   manly   strength 

endued. 
She   with   one   finger  and   a   thumb  sub- 
dued :  80 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils 

drerw, 
A  charge  of  snuflF  the  wily  virgin  threw; 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden,  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o'er- 

flows. 
And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 
"Now  meet  thy  fate,"  incensed  Belinda 

cried. 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck, 
Her  great  great  grandsire  wore  about  his 

neck,  90 

In  three   seal-rings;  which  after,  melted 

down. 
Formed   a   vast  buckle    for   his   widow's 

gown ; 
Her    infant   grandame's    whistle    next    it 

grew, 
The   bells    she   jingled,    and   the    whistle 

blew; 
Then   in   a   bodkin   graced   her   mother's 

hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda 

wears.) 
"Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cried,  "insulting 

foe! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low; 
Nor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind: 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind  !    100 
Rather  than  so,  ah,  let  me  still  survive. 
And   burn    in    Cupid's    flames — but   burn 

alive." 


"Restore  the  lock!"  she  cries;  and  all 

around 
"Restore  the  lock!"  the  vaulted  roofs  re- 
bound. 
Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 
Roared   for  the  handkerchief  that  caused 

his  pain. 
But    see    how    oft    ambitious    aims    are 

crossed, 
And  chiefs   contend  till   all   the  prize   is 

lost! 
The  lock,   obtained  with  guilt,   and  kept 

with  pain, 
In  every   place  is  sought,   but  sought  in 

vain:  iio 

With   such    a  prize    no    mortal    must   be 

blessed. 
So   Heaven    decrees !    with    Heaven   who 

can  contest? 
Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar 

sphere. 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured 

there. 
There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous 

vases. 
And   beaux'   in   snuflf-boxes  and  tweezer 

cases; 
There  broken  vows   and  death-bed  alms 

are  found. 
And  lovers'   hearts  with  ends  of  riband 

bound. 
The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  man's 

prayers. 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and   the  tears  of 

heirs,  120 

Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea. 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 
But  trust  the  Muse — she  saw  it  upward 

rise. 
Though  marked  by  none  but  quick,  poetic 

eyes : 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heavens 

withdrew. 
To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view^) 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks^  first  rose  so  bright, 
The  heavens  bespangling  with  dishevelled 

light.  130 

The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies. 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through 

the  skies. 

1  Romulus,  after  being  carried  to  heaven,  ap- 
peared to  Proculus  in  a  glorious  "theophany." 

2  Berenice,  wife  of  Ptolemy  III,  dedicated  her 
hair  in  a  vow  for  her  husband's  safe  return.  When 
it  disappeared  from  the  temple  where  it  had  been 
deposited,  it  was  said  to  have  been  taken  to  the 
heavens  to  form  the  constellation  called  Berenice's 
fa  air. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


29 


This   the   beau    monde  shall   from   the 
Mall^  survey, 

And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray. 

This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take, 

And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake. 

This  Partridge-  soon  shall  view  in  cloud- 
less skies. 

When    next    he   looks    through    Galileo's 
eyes ; 

And  hence  th'  egregious  wizard  shall  fore- 
doom 139 

The  fate  of  Louis  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 
Then  cease,  bright  nymph !  to  mourn  thy 
ravished  hair, 

Which    adds    new   glory   to    the   shining 
sphere ! 

Not   all   the   tresses   that    fair   head   can 
boast, 

Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 

For,  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye, 

When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall 
die; 

When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they 
must. 

And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust : 

This  lock,   the  Muse  shall   consecrate  to 
fame. 

And   'midst  the  stars   inscribe   Belinda's 
name.  150 

(1714) 


THE    PAINTER    WHO    PLEASED 
NOBODY  AND   EVERYBODY 

JOHN    GAY 

So  very  like  a  painter  drew, 
That  every  eye  the  picture  knew. 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air. 
So  just,  the  life  itself  was  there. 
No  flattery  with  his  colors  laid 
To  bloom  restored  the  faded  maid ; 
He  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength, — 
The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  nose's  length ; 
His  honest  pencil  touched  with  truth, 
And  marked  the  date  of  age  and  youth,   to 

He  lost  his  friends,  his  practice  failed; 
Truth  should  not  always  be  revealed. 
In  dusty  piles  his  pictures  lay, 
For  no  one  sent  the  second  pay.^ 

Two  bustos,*  fraught  with  every  grace, 
A  Venus'  and  Apollo's  face, 

1  Mall.     A  walk  in  St.  James's  Park,  where  was 
also  the  lake  of  line  136. 

2  Partridge.     An  almanac-maker  and  astrologer 
of  the  period. 

3  Sitters   would   pay  a   deposit,   but   refuse   to 
send  more  money  when  they  saw  the  work. 

4  bustos.     Busts. 


He  placed  in  view ;  resolved  to  please, 
Whoever  sat  he  drew  from  these, 
From  these  corrected  every  feature. 
And  spirited  each  awkward  creature.      20 
All  things  were  set;  the  hour  was  come, 
His  palette  ready  o'er  his  thumb. 
My  lord  appeared,  and,  seated  right, 
In  proper  attitude  and  light. 
The  painter  looked,  he  sketched  the  piece, 
Then  dipped  his  pencil, — talked  of  Greece, 
Of  Titian's  tints,  of  Guido's  air. 
"Those  eyes,  my  lord,  the  spirit  there 
Might  well  a  Raphael's  hand  require, 
To  give  them  all  the  native  fire;  30 

The  features,  fraught  with  sense  and  wit. 
You'll  grant,  are  very  hard  to  hit; 
But  yet  with  patience  j'ou  shall  view 
As  much  as  paint  and  art  can  do." 

Observe  the  work.     My  lord  replied, 
"Till  now  I  thought  my  mouth  was  wide; 
Besides,  my  nose  is  somewhat  long; 
Dear  sir,  for  me  'tis  far  too  young." 

"Oh,  pardon  me,"  the  artist  cried; 
"In  this  we  painters  must  decide.  40 

The  piece  ev'n  common  eyes  must  strike, — 
I  warrant  it  extremely  like." 

My  lord  examined  it  anew; 
No  looking-glass  seemed  half  so  true. 

A  lady  came ;  with  borrowed  grace. 
He  from  his  Venus  formed  her  face. 
Her  lover  praised  the  painter's  art; 
So  like  the  picture  in  his  heart ! 
To  every  age  some  charm  he  lent; 
Ev'n  beauties  were  almost  content.  50 

Through  all  the  town  his  art  they  praised ; 
His  custom  grew,  his  price  was  raised. 
Had  he  the  real  likeness  shown. 
Would  any  man  the  picture  own? 
But,  when  thus  happily  he  wrought. 
Each  found  the  likeness  in  his  thought. 

(1727) 


THE   PEACOCK,    THE    TURKEY, 
AND  THE  GOOSE     . 

JOHN    GAY 

In  beauty  faults  conspicuous  grow; 
The  smallest  speck  is  seen  on  snow. 

As  near  a  barn,  by  hunger  led, 
A  peacock  with  the  poultry  fed. 
All  viewed  him  with  an  envious  eye, 
And  mocked  his  gaudy  pageantry. 
He,  conscious  of  superior  merit, 
Contemns  their  base  reviling  spirit. 
His  state  and  dignity  assumes. 
And  to  the  sun  displays  his  plumes,        lO 


30 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Which,  like  the  heavens'  o'erarching  skies, 
Are  spangled  with  a  thousand  eyes. 
The  circling  rays  and  varied  light 
At  once  confound  their  dazzled  sight; 
On  every  tongue  detraction  burns, 
And  malice  prompts  their  spleen  by  turns. 

"Mark  with  what  insolence  and  pride 
The  creature  takes  his  haughty  stride," 
The  turkey  cries.     "Can  spleen  contain  ?i 
Sure  never  bird  was  half  so  vain!  20 

But,  were  intrinsic  merit  seen, 
We  turkeys  have  the  whiter  skin !" 
From    tongue    to   tongue   they    caught 

abuse ; 
And  next  was  heard  the  hissing  goose: 
"What  hideous  legs !  what  filthy  claws ! 
I  scorn  to  censure  little  flaws. 
Then  what  a  horrid  squealing  throat! 
Ev'n  owls  are  frighted  at  the  note." 

"True;   those  are   faults,"   the  peacock 

cries; 
"My  scream,  my  shanks,  you  may  despise ; 
But  such  blind  critics  rail  in  vain.  31 

What !  overlook  my  radiant  train ! 
Know,    did    my    legs — ^your    scorn    and 

sport — 
The  turkey  or  the  goose  support, 
And  did  ye  scream  with  harsher  sound, 
Those  faults  in  you  had  ne'er  been  found. 
To  all  apparent  beauties  blind, 
Each  blemish  strikes  an  envious  mind." 

Thus  in  assemblies  have  I  seen 
A  nymph  of  brightest  charms  and  mien  40 
Wake  envy  in  each  ugly  face, 
And  buzzing  scandal  fills  the  place. 

(1727) 


BOADICEA 

WILLIAM   COWPER 

[Boadicea  was  Queen  of  a  tribe  of  Britons. 
After  the  death  of  her  husband  she  quarreled 
with  the  Romans,  was  publicly  flogged  by  them, 
and  led  an  uprising  against  their  authority.  For 
a  time  she  was  successful,  but  subsequently  was 
defeated  and  committed  suicide.  Cowper  makes 
the  Druid  prophesy  the  glories  of  modern 
Britain.] 

When  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods. 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien. 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

I  spleen  contain.     Indignation  be  restrained. 


Sage  beneath  a  spreading  oak 

Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief. 
Every  burning  word  he  spoke 

Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief: 

"Princess!  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs,       10 
*Tis  because  resentment  ties 

All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

"Rome  shall  perish, — write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt; 

Perish  hopeless  and  abhorred, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

"Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground, — 
Hark!  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates.  20 

"Other  Romans  shall  arise. 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame.2 

"Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land. 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings. 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

"Regions  Caesar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway,  30 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew,^ 

None  invincible  as  they." 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words. 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire. 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride. 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow, — 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought  and  died, — 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe.  40 

"Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud. 
Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due; 

Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, — 
Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you !" 

(1782) 

2  Referring  to  the  days  when    Italy  should  be 
famed  for  the  arts  instead  of  warfare. 

,j  easlfs.     The  Roman  standards  (bronze  eagles). 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


31 


TAM  O'  SHANTER 

ROBERT  BURNS 

fAlloway  Kirk  (Churcli)  was  a  ruin  standing 
near  the  "auld  Brig  o'  Doon"  (old  bridge  over 
the  Doon),  not  far  from  Burns's  birthplace.  The 
legend  of  this  poem  he  used  to  relate  as  current 
in  the  neighborhood.] 

When  chapman  billies^  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy2  neibors  neibors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate; 
While  we  sit  bousin  at  the  nappy,^ 
An'  getting  fou*  and  unco''  happy. 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,^  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame,  lo 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae'^  night  did  canter : 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses. 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses). 

O  Tam!  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 
She  tauld  thee  well  thou  was  a  skellum.^ 
A    bletherin,*     blusterin,     drunken     blel- 

lum;i'>  20 

That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober; 
That  ilka  melder^i  wi'  the  miller. 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd^^  ^  g^oe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on ; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found,  deep  drown'd  in 

Doon,  30 

Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks^^  in  the  mirk.^^ 
By  Alloway's  auld,  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames !  it  gars  me  greet,^' 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengthen'd,  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 

1  chapman  billies.     Merchant  fellows. 

2  drouthy.     Thirsty. 

3  drinking  ale. 

4  fou.     Full. 

5  unco.     Extremely. 

6  slaps.     Gates. 

7  ae.     One. 

8  skeUum.     Rascal. 

9  bletherin.     Chattering. 

10  blellum.     Babbler. 

11  ilka  melder.     Every  corn-grinding, 

12  ca'd.     Driven. 

13  warlocks.     Wizards. 

14  mirk.     Dark. 

15  gars  me  grzet.     Makes  me  weep. 


But  to  our  tale : — Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right. 
Fast  by  an  ingle, ^^  bleezin  finely. 
Wi'  reamin  swats^^  that  drank  divinely  ;40 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter^^  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony : 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  secret  favours,  sweet  and  precious : 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus ;  50 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy: 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wihg'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed;  60 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide: 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun^s  ride; 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key- 

stane. 
That   dreary  hour  he  mounts   his  beast 

in :  70 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swal- 

low'd; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bel- 

low'd: 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand. 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel-mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg,  &» 

Tam   skelpit^o  on  thro'   dub^i   and   mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 

16  ingle.     Hearth-fire. 

17  reamin  swats.     Foaming  ales. 

18  Souter,     Shoemaker. 

19  maun.     Must. 

20  skelpit.     Hurried. 

21  dub.     Puddle. 


32 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Whiles  holding  fast  his  gude  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  son- 
net, 
Whiles  glow'rin  round  wi*  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares, 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets^  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare     in      the     snaw     the     chapman 
smoor'd  ;2  oo 

And  past  the  birks^  and  meikle*  stane,  ' 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins,^  and  by  the  cairn,*^ 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods, 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll;  lOO 
When,     glimmering    thro'    the    groaning 

trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze,^ 
Thro'  ilka  bore^  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 
Wi'  tippenny,9  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquabae,^'^  we'll   face  the  devil ! 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noodle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle.^^  no 
But  Maggie  stood,  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow !  Tam  saw  an  unco^^  sight ! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance ; 
Nae  cotillon  brent^^  new  frae  France, 
But     hornpipes,     jigs,     strathspeys,     and 

reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker^*  in  the  east,  119 

There  sat  Auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  towzie  tyke.is  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 


I 

houlels. 

.     Owls. 

2 

smoor'd.     Smothered. 

3 

birks. 

Birches. 

4 

meikle. 

Huge. 

5 

whins. 

Furze. 

6 

cairn. 

Stone-heap. 

7 

b/eeze. 

Blaze. 

8 

bore. 

Chink. 

9  tippenny.     Twopenny  ale. 

10  usquabae.     Whiskey. 

11  boddle.     Farthinfj. 

12  unco.     Extraorrlinary. 

13  brent.     "Brand"  new. 

14  winnock-bunktr .     Window-seat. 

15  lowzie  tyke.     Shaggy  cur. 


He    screw'd    the    pipes    and    gart    them 
skirl,i6 

Till  roof  and   rafters  a'  did  dirl.i^ 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses. 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight^^ 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table  130 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet-aims; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  the  rape,i^ 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab^o  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted : 
Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled : 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft, 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft;     140 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 


As     Tammie     glowr'd,2i  amaz'd,     and 

curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious ; 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew. 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reel'd,   they  set,   they  cross'd,  they 

cleekit,22 
Till  ilka  carlin^s  swat  and  reekit,^* 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark.^s 
And  linket^s  at  it  in  her  sark!-^  150 

Now,    Tam,    O    Tam;    had    thae    been 
queans,28 
A*  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens ! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie^**  flannen. 
Been     snaw-white     seventeen     bunder 

linen  !-^o 
Thir^i  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdies,^^ 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdics  \^^ 

16  skirl.     Shriek. 

17  dirl.     Rattle. 

18  cantraip  sleight.     Magic  skill. 

19  rape.     Rope. 

20  gab.     Mouth. 

21  glowr'd.     Stared. 

22  cleekit.     Joined  hands. 

23  carlin.     Old  woman. 

24  swat  and  reekit.     Sweat  and  steamed. 

25  Cast  off  her  clothes  in  the  labor. 

26  linket.     Tripped. 

27  sark.     Smock. 

28  queans.     Girls. 

29  creeshie.     Greasy. 

30  The  finest  linen  had  1, 700  meshes  to  the  reed. 

31  Thir.     These. 

32  hurdles.     Hips. 

33  burdies.     Lasses. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


33 


But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie^  hags  wad  spean^  a  foal,      i6o 
Lowping^  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock,* 
I  wonder  didna  turn  my  stomach. 

But    Tam    ken'd    what    was    what    fu* 
brawlie  i^ 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie^ 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core'^ 
(Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore: 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear.s 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) ;      170 
Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  ham,* 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.io 

Ah !  little  ken'd  thy  reverend  grannie. 
That  sark  she  cofti"-  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'    twa    pund    Scots^^     ('twas    a'    her 

riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches ! 

But    here    my    Muse    her    wing    maun 

cow'r, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r;    180 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap^^  and  flang 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang), 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  one  bewitch'd. 
And  thought  his  very  een^*  enrich'd: 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd^^  fu'  fain 
And  hotch'd^s   and   blew   wi'    might  and 

main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  synei'^  anither, 
Tam  tint^s  his  reason  a'  thegither. 
And  roars  out,  "Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark :    _  190 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,!** 
When     plundering     herds      assail     their 

byke  ;20 
As  open  pussie's^i  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow,      IQ9 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch^s  skriech  and  hollo. 

1  Rigwoodie.     Bony 

2  spean.     Wean  (by  disgust). 

3  Lowping.   Leaping.  4  crummock.     Staff. 
S  brawlie.     Finely.               6  walie.     Goodly. 

'  7   core.     Company.  8  bear.     Barley. 

9  Short  smock,  of  Paisley  yarn. 
10  vauntie.     Proud.  11   cofl.     Bought. 

1 2  Two  pounds  Scotch  =  three  shillings  four-pence. 

13  lap.     Leaped.  14  een.     Eyes. 

IS  fidg'd.     Fidgeted.  16  hoich'd.    Squirmed. 

17  syne.     Then.  18  tint.  Lost. 

19  fyke.   Clamor.  20  byke.  Hive. 

21  pussie's.     The  hare's.  22  eldritch.     Ghostly. 


Ah,    Tam !    Ah,    Tam !   thou'll   get    thy 
fairin  \-^ 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  wocfu'  woman! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig;^* 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 
The  fient-s  a  tail  she  had  to  shake!        210 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'   furious  ettle;^*' 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale,^" 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha28  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man,  and  mother's  son,  take  heed :  220 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind. 
Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  owrc-'J  dear; 
Remember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  mare. 

(1791) 

THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT 
MARINER 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

[This  poem  was  planned  by  Wordsworth  an<l 
Coleridge  jointly,  for  their  volume  of  Lyrical 
Ballads.  The  story  was  in  part  suggested  by  the 
dream  of  a  friend  of  Coleridge's,  but  Words- 
worth contributed  the  theme  of  the  slain  alba- 
tross. Coleridge  afterward  explained  his  purpose 
in  writing  the  poem  to  be  "to  procure  for  these 
shadows  of  imagination  that  willing  suspension 
of  disbelief  for  the  moment  which  constitutes 
poetic  faith."] 

ARGUMENT 

How  a  ship  having  passed  the  Line  was  driven 
by  Storms  to  the  cold  Country  toward  the  South 
Pole;  and  how  from  thence  she  made  her  course 
to  the  Tropical  Latitude  of  the  Great  Pacific 
Ocean;  and  of  the  strange  things  that  befell;  and 
in  what  manner  the  Ancyent  Marinere  came 
back  to  his  own  Country. 


It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"By   thy  long  gray  beard   and  glittering 

eye. 
Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me? 


23  fairin.     Reward. 
25  fient.     Devil. 
27  hale.  Whole. 
29  owre.     Too. 


24  brig.  Bridge. 
26  etlle.  Intent. 
j8  wha.     Whoever. 


34 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next   of  kin; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he.  lo 

"Hold  off!  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon!" 
Eftsoons^  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still. 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child: 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone : 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  20 

"The    ship     was     cheered,     the    harbour 

cleared. 
Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,2  below  the  hill, 
Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

"The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left. 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"Higher  and  higher  every  day. 
Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — "  30 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast. 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall. 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  40 

"And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

"With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow. 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 
And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 
And  southward  aye^  we  fled.  5° 

1  Eftsoons.  Immediately. 

2  kirk.     Church. 

3  aye.     Always  (steadily). 


"And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold : 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

"And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

"The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around :  60 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and 

howled. 
Like  voices  in  a  swound  !* 

"At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

"It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat. 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through !         70 

"And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  be- 
hind ; 
The  Albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play. 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 

"In   mist   or   cloud,    on    mast   or   shroud. 

It  perched  for  vespers''  nine; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through   fog-smoke 

white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine." 

"God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus! — 
Why  look'st  thou  so?" — "With  my  cross- 
bow 81 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 


PART  II 

"The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  be- 
hind. 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo  ?  90 

4  swound.     Swoon,  dream. 

5  vespers.     Evenings. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


35 


"And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  *em  woe  : 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah,  wretch !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

"Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 
The  glorious  Sun  uprist;! 
Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist.  loo 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay. 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

"The   fair   breeze  blew,   the   white   foam 

flew. 
The  furrow  followed  free ; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

"Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 

down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea!  no 

"All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

"Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

"Water,  water,  everywhere, 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ;  120 

Water,  water,  everywhere. 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

"The  very  deep  did  rot:    O  Christ! 
That  ever  this  should  be ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

"About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout^ 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 

Burnt  green  and  blue  and  white,  130 

"And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

1  uprist.     Uprose. 

2  rout.     Tumult. 


"And  every  tongue,  through  utter  thought, 
Was  withered  at  tlie  root; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

"Ah  !   well-a-day !   what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young !  140 

Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

PART  III 

"There  passed  a  weary  time.    Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time!  a  weary  time! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye ! — 

When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

"At  first- it  seemed  a  little  speck. 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist;  150 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist.^ 

"A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared: 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

"With  throats  unslaked,   with   black  lips 

baked. 
We  could  nor  laugh,  nor  wail ; 
Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ! 
I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood,         160 
And  cried,  A  sail!  a  sail! 

"With   throats  unslaked,   with    black  lips 

baked. 
Agape  they  heard  me  call : 
Gramercy!*  they   for  joy   did   grin. 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in. 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

"'See!  see!'  (I  cried)  !she  tacks  no  more! 

Hither  to  work  us  weal. 

Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel!'  170 

"The  western  wave  was  all  aflame. 

The  day  was  well-nigh  done ! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

"And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with 

bars 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace!) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face.  180 

3  wisl.     Knew. 

4  Gramercy.     Great  thanks. 


Z6 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Alas!    (thought    I,    and    my    heart    beat 

loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameresP^ 

"Are   those   her   ribs    through   which    the 

Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there  two? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate? 

"Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold :  191 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-mare,  Life-in-Death,  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

"The  naked  hulk  alongside  came. 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 
'The  game  is  done!    I've  won!    I've  won!' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

"The  Sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush  out. 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark;  200 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea. 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

"We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed 

white ; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clomb2  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip.  211 

"One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh. 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang. 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

"Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one, 

"The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 220 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by. 

Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  !" — 

1  gossameres.     Spider-webs. 

2  tlomb.     Climbed. 


"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand. 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

"I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown." — 
"Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
This  body  dropt  not  down.^  231 

"Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

"The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on ;  and  so  did  I. 

"I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea,  240 

And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

"I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to   pray; 
But  or*  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

"I  closed  my  lips,  and  kept  them  close, 
And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 
For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and 
the  sky  250 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye. 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

"The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs. 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

"An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye!  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse. 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

"The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide; 
.Softly   she  was  going  up. 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

3  That  is,  I  am  not  a  ghost. 

4  or.     Before. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


37 


"Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway  270 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

"Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

"Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire.  281 

"O  happy  living  things !    no  tongue 

Their   beauty   might   declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And   I  blessed   them    unaware. 

"The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank  290 

Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

PART  V 

"Oh  sleep!    It  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle   sleep   from   Heaven, 
That   slid  into  my  soul. 

"The  sillyi  buckets  on  the  deck. 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained.  300 

"My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams. 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

"I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs : 
I    was    so   light — almost 
I   thought  that   I  had   died  in  sleep. 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

"And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind : 
It  did  not  come  anear :  310 

But  with  its   sound   it   shook  the  sails. 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 


'The  upper  air  burst  into  life! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen,^ 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about  I 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out. 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

"And   the   coming   wind    did    roar    more 

loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ;3 
And    the    rain    poured    down    from    one 

black  cloud;  320 

The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

"The    thick    black   cloud   was   cleft,    and 

still 
The   Moon  was  at  its  side : 
Like  waters   shot   from   some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  nevef  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

"The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship. 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan.  330 

"They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  up- 
rose. 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

"The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved 

on; 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew : 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — • 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew.  340 

"The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee: 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope 
But  he  said  nought  to  me." — 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner!" — 
"Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain. 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again. 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

"For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their 
arms,  350 

And  clustered  round   the   mast ; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their 
mouths. 

And  from  their  bodies  passed. 


I  silly.     Useless  (?). 


2  sheen. 

3  sedge. 

ty.  r —  I —    ,1   ^  >  ,•  - 


Bright. 

Reeds  (in  the  wiad). 


38 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the   Sun ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

"Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are,        360 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

"And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And   now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

"It  ceased ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June,  370 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

"Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on. 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

"Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep. 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

The  spirit  slid;  and  it  was  he 

That  made  the  ship  to  go.  380 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 

And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

"The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir. 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

"Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound :  390 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 
And  I   fell  down  in  a  swound. 

"How  long  in  that   same   fit   T   lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"'Is  it  he?'  quoth  one,  'Is  this  the  man? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low     400 
The  harmless  Albatross. 


"  'The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

"The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As   soft  as  honey-dew: 

Quoth  he,  'The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 

PART  VI 

First  Voice 
"  'But  tell  me,  tell  me !  speak  again,     410 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing?' 

Second   Voice 
"  'Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

"'If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!   how  graciously         420 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

First    Voice 
"  'But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast. 
Without  or  wave  or  wind?' 

Second  Voice 
"  'The  air  is  cut  away  before. 
And  closes  from  behind. 

"  'Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 

"I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on         430 

As  in  a  gentle  weather : 

'Twas  night,   calm  night,  the  Moon  was 

high. 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 

"All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stormy  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

"The  pang,    the   curse,    with    which   they 

died. 
Had  never  passed   away : 
1    could    not   draw  my  eyes    from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray.  44i 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


39 


"And    now    this    spell    was    snapt :    once 

more 
I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 
And  looked  far  north,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

"Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on. 

And  turns  no  more  his  head; 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend     450 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

"But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In   ripple  or   in  shade. 

"It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It    mingled   strangely   with    my    fears. 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

"Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship,  460 

Yet  she  sailed  softly  too : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

"Oh!    dream   of   joy!   is  this   indeed 
The  light-house  top  I  see? 
Is  this  the  hill?  is  this  the  kirk? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

"We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 
'O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God !  470 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway.' 

"The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 

"The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

"And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light 
Till  rising  from  the  same,  481 

Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were. 
In  crimson  colours  came. 

"A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson   shadows  were : 
I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there ! 


"Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,   by  the  holy  rood!^ 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man,  490 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

"This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand : 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as   signals  to  the  land, 
Each   one   a  lovely   light; 

"This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice ;  but  oh !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

"But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars,     50a 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer : 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

"The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard   them  coming   fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven!  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead   men   could   not  blast. 

"I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice : 

It  is  the   Hermit  good! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns         510 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,^  he'll  wash  away 

The   Albatross's   blood. 


"This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 
He   loves  to  talk  with   marineres 
That  come  from  a   far  countree. 

"He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion   plump :  520 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted   old  oak  stump. 

"The    skiflF-boat    neared :     I    heard    them 

talk, 
'Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair. 
That  signal  made   but  now?' 

"  'Strange,    by    my    faith !'    the    Hermit 

said — 
'And  they  answered  not  our  cheer! 
The  planks  looked  warped!  and  see  those 

sails. 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere !  530 

T  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
LTnless   perchance   it   were 

I  rood.     Cross. 
'    2  shrieve  my  soul.     Receive   my  confession  (and 
prant  absolution). 


40 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"  'Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along; 
When  the  ivy-tod^  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

"  'Dear  Lord !    it  hath  a  fiendish  look' — 
(The  Pilot   made  reply) 


'I    am    a- feared.' — 'Push    on, 
Said  the  Hermit   cheerily. 


push 


on  !* 
541 


"The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship. 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

"Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still   louder  and    more   dread : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

"Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful 
sound,  550 

Which    sky   and  ocean  smote. 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days 
drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

"Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was   telling  of  the   sound. 

"I    moved    my    lips — the    Pilot    shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ;  561 

The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes. 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

"I  took  the  oars :  the  Pilot's  boy. 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

'Ha!  ha!'  quoth  he,   'full  plain  I   see, 

The   Devil  knows  how  to  row.* 

"And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree,     570 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

" 'O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man!' 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
'Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  'I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou?' 
I  tod.    Bush. 


"Forthwith     this     frame     of     mine     was 

wrenched 
With  a  woful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale;      580 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 

"Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour. 
That  agony  returns : 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

"I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land; 

I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 

That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 

I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me: 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach.  590 

"What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  I 
The  wedding-guests  are  there : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are : 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

"O  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be.  600 

"O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 
With  a  goodly  company ! — 

"To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And   all  together  pray. 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay! 

"Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell        610 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

"He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright. 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone;  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest    620 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned. 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  :~ 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

(1798) 
3  forlorn.     Deprived. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


41 


SIMON   LEE 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

[This  poem  is  one  of  Wordsworth's  charac- 
teristic contributions  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  of 
which  he  said  that  they  were  distinguished  from 
the  poetry  of  the  day  in  that  "the  feeling  therein 
developed  gives  importance  to  the  action  and 
situation,  and  not  the  action  and  situation  to  the 
feeling."     Compare  with  this  remark  lines  61-68.] 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor  Hall, 
An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, — 
'Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 
Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee         lO 

When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 
Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind; 
And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done. 
He  reeled,  and  was  stone-blind.  20 

And  still  there's  something  in  the  world 
At  which  his  heart  rejoices; 
For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out. 
He  dearly  loves  their  voices. 

But  oh  the  heavy  change — bereft 

Of  health,  strength,  friends,  and  kindred, 

see ! 
Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 
In  liveried  poverty.'- 
His  master's  dead,  and  no  one  now 
Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor;  30 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead ; 
He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick ; 

His  body,  dwindled  and  awry. 

Rests  upon  ankles  swoll'n  and  thick; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, — 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 

Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall. 

Upon  the  village  common.  40 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay. 
Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 

I  That  is,  in  poverty,  though  still  wearing  the 
livery  of  his  former  employer. 


This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger ; 
But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 
Which  he  can  till  no  longer? 

Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do ;  50 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride. 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labor  could  not  wean  them, 

'Tis  little,  very  little,  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store. 

As  he  to  you  will  tell. 

For  still,2  the  more  he  works,  the  more 

Do  his  weak  ankles  swell.  60 

My  gentle  reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you've  waited, 

And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 

Some  tale  will  be  related. 

O  reader !  had  you  in  your  mind 
Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

0  gentle  reader!  you  would  find 
A  tale  in  everything. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short. 
And  you  must  kindly  take  it :  70 

It  is  no  tale ;  but,  should  you  think. 
Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer  day  I  chanced  to  see 

This  old  man  doing  all  he  could 

To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 

A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 

The  mattock  tottered  in  his  hand; 

So  vain  was  his  endeavor, 

That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 

He  might  have  worked  forever.  80 

"You're  overtasked,  good  Simon  Lee; 
Give  me  your  tool,"  to  him  I  said ; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
Received  my  profifered  aid. 

1  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I  severed. 

At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavored. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought. 
And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run    90 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
— I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning; 
Alas !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

(1798) 
2  still.     Always. 


42 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


BISHOP   HATTO 

ROBERT    SOUTHEY 

_  [The  legend  of  Bishop  Hatto  is  attached  to  an 
historic  Archbishop  of  Mentz,  Germany,  and  the 
supposed  date  is  about  A.D.  914.] 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet; 
'Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door, 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last-year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnished  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day    lo 
To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay ; 
He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair. 
And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter 
there. 

Rejoiced  such  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folk  flocked  from  far  and  near ; 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and 
old. 

Then  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door;  19 
And  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn  and  burnt  them  all. 

"P  faith  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire !"  quoth 

he, 
"And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me 
For  ridding  it,  in  these  times  forlorn. 
Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 
And  he  sat  down  to  supper  merrily, 
And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent 

man ; 
But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  entered  the  hall    30 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came. 
For  the  Rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  looked,  there  came  a  man  from  his 

farm, — 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm : 
"My   lord,    I   opened   your   granaries   this 

morn, 
And  the  Rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 


Another  came  running  presently, 
And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be. 
"Fly,  my  Lord  Bishop,  fly !"  quoth  he.    40 
"Ten    thousand    Rats    are    coming    this 

way; — 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday!" 

"I'll  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Rhine,"  re- 
plied he ; 

"'Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany. 

The  walls  are  high,  and  the  shores  are 
steep, 

And  the  stream  is  strong  and  the  water 
deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away. 
And  he  crossed  the  Rhine  without  delay, 
And  reached  his  tower,  and  barred  with 

care 
All    the    windows,    doors,    and    loopholes 

there.  5° 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes; — 
But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise. 
He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 
On  his  pillow  from  whence  the  screaming 
came. 

He  listened  and  looked, — it  was  only  the 

cat; 
But  the  Bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for 

that, 
For  she  sat  screaming,  mad  with  fear, 
At  the  army  of  Rats  that  were  drawing 

near. 

For  they  have  swam  over  the  river  so 
deep,  59 

And  they  have  climbed  the  shores  so  steep. 
And  up  the  tower  their  way  is  bent. 
To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were  sent. 

They  are  not  to  be  told^  by  the  dozen  or 

score ; 
By  thousands  they  come,  and  by  myriads 

and  more. 
Such   numbers  had  never  been  heard  of 

before, — 
Such  a  judgment  had  never  been  witnessed 

of  yore. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  Bishop  fell. 
And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell. 
As  louder  and  louder  drawing  near         6g 
The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 

I  told.     Counted. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


43 


And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls  helter-skelter  they 

pour, 
And    down     from    the    ceiling,    and    up 

through  the  floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind 

and  before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and 

below ; 
And  all  at  once  to  the  Bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the 

stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones. 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to   do   judgment   on 

him !  80 

(1799) 

LUCY   GRAY 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray: 
And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play. 
The  hare  upon  the  green;  10 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"That,  Father!  will  I  gladly  do: 

'Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 

The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 

And  yonder  is  the  moon !"  20 

At  this  the  Father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band ; 
He  plied  his  work ; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow. 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time  : 
She  wandered  up  and  down ;  30 

And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb : 
But  never  reached  the  town. 


The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  daybreak  on  the  hill  they  stood 
That  overlooked  the  moor; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 
A  furlong  from  their  door.  40 

They  wept — and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 
"In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet;" 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's   feet. 

Then    downwards    from    the    steep    hill's 

edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed : 
The  marks  were  still  the  same ;  50 

They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank ; 
And  further  there  were  none ! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day, 
She  is  a  living  child; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild.  60 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along. 
And  never  looks  behind ; 
And   sings   a   solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

(1800) 

MICHAEL 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

[Of  this  poem  Wordsworth  wrote:  "The  sheep- 
fold,  on  which  so  much  of  the  poem  turns,  re- 
mains, or  rather  the  ruins  of  it.  The  character 
and  circumstances  of  Liike  were  taken  from  a 
family  to  whom  had  belonged,  many  years  be- 
fore, the  house  we  lived  in  at  Town-end," — 
that  is,  at   Grasmere.] 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 
Up   the   tumultuous   brook   of   Greenhead 

Ghyll. 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 
Your   feet    must    struggle ;    in    such   bold 

ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to 

face. 


44 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But,  courage!  for  around  that  boisterous 
brook 

The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  them- 
selves, 

And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  can  be  seen ;  but  they 

Who  journey  thither  find  themselves 
alone  lo 

With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones, 
and  kites 

That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 

It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude ; 

Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this 
dell 

But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass 

by. 

Might   see   and   notice   not      Beside  the 

brook 
Appears    a    straggling   heap    of    unhewn 

stones ! 
And  to  that  simple  object  appertains 
A  story — unenriched  with  strange  events, 
Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside,     20 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.    It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved ;  not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but   for  the  fields 

and  hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 
And  hence  this  tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy 
Careless   of    books,   yet   having    felt   the 

power 
Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of  natural  objects,  led  me  on  to  feel      30 
For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and 

think 
(At  random  and  imperfectly,  mdeed)  ^ 
On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 
Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same 
For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts; 
And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 
Of  youthful  poets,  who  among  these  hills 
Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale  40 
There  dwelt  a  shepherd,  Michael  was  his 

name; 
An  old  man,  stout  of  heart  and  strong  of 

limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to 

age 
Of   an   unusual   strength:    his   mind   was 

keen. 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs. 
And    in    his    shepherd's    calling    he    was 

prompt 


And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all 

winds. 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes, 
When   others   heeded   not,   he   heard   the 

South  50 

Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The   shepherd,   at   such   warning,   of   his 

flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would 

say, 
"The  winds  are  now  devising  work   for 

me!" 
And,  truly,  at  all  times  the  storm,  that 

drives 
The  traveler  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains :  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 
That  came  to  him,  and  left  him,  on  the 

heights.  60 

So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 
And  grossly   that   man   errs   who   should 

suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams 

and  rocks. 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had 

breathed 
The  common  air;  hills,  which  with  vigor- 
ous step 
He  had  so  often  climbed;  which  had  im- 
pressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind  68 

Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 
Which,  like  a  book,  preserved  the  memory 
Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 
Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts 
The  certainty  of  honorable  gain; 
Those  fields,  those  hills — what  could  they 

less? — had  laid 
Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love, 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 
His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  single- 
ness. 
His  helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty 

years.  80 

She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life. 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house :  two  wheels 

she  had 
Of  antique  form;  this  large,  for  spinning 

wool ; 
That  small,  for  flax;  and  if  one  wheel  had 

rest 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


45 


It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 
The    pair    had    but    one    inmate    in    their 

house, 
An    only    child,    who    had    been    born    to 

them 
When  Michael,  telling^  o'er  his  years,  be- 
gan 
To  deem  that  he  was  old, — in  shepherd's 

phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only 

son,  90 

With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many 

a  storm, 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.    I  may  truly  say 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.  When  day  was  gone, 
And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
The  son  and  father  were  come  home,  even 

then 
Their  labor  did  not  cease;  unless  when  all 
Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and 

there. 
Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed 

milk,  100 

Sat   round   the   basket   piled    with    oaten 

cakes. 
And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.     Yet 

when  the  meal 
Was   ended,   Luke    (for   so  the    son   was 

named) 
And  his  old  father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by   the  fireside;   perhaps  to 

card 
Wool  for  the  housewife's  spindle,  or  re- 
pair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 
Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's 

edge,  no 

That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
With    huge    and    black    projection    over- 
browed 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  housewife  hung  a 

lamp ; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn — and  late, 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours, 
Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had 

found 
And  left  the  couple  neither  gay,  perhaps. 
Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with 

hopes,  121 

I  telling.     Counting. 


Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And    now,    when    Luke    had    reached   his 

eighteenth  year. 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they 

sate, 
Father  and  son,  while  far  into  the  night 
The    housewife    plied    her    own    peculiar 

work, 
Making    the    cottage    through    the    silent 

hours 
Murmur    as   with   the   sound   of    summer 

flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood. 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life      130 
That   thrifty   pair   had   lived.     For,   as   it 

chanced, 
Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood   single,   with   large   prospect,   north 

and  south, 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmail-Raise, 
And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake ; 
And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  house  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale. 
Both    old    and    young,    was    named    The 

Evening  Star. 
Thus  living  on  through   such   a  length 

of  years,  140 

The  shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must 

needs 
Have  loved  his  helpmate ;  but  to  Michael's 

heart 
This   son   of  his   old   age   was   yet   more 

dear — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood 

of  all— 
Than  that   a  child,   more  than  all   other 

gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man. 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking 

thoughts,  148 

And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy!     For  often- 
times 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms. 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of    fathers,    but    with    patient    mind    en- 
forced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle,  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love. 
Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind,  161 


46 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


To  have  the  young  one  in  his  sight,  when 

he 
Wrought  in  the  field,  or  on  his  shepherd's 

stool 
Sate   with   a   fettered   sheep   before   him 

stretched 
Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his  door 
Stood  single,  and,   from  matchless  depth 

of  shade 
Chosen  from  the  shearer's  covert  from  the 

sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it 

bears. 
There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the 

shade,  170 

With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and 

blithe, 
Would   Michael  exercise   his   heart   with 

looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By    catching    at    their   legs,    or    with    his 

shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath 

the  shears. 
And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the 

boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old ; 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he 

hooped  181 

With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff. 
And    gave    it    to    the    boy;    wherewith 

equipped 
He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock ; 
And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called. 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 
Something   between    a    hindrance    and    a 

help ;  ,  i8g 

And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  father  hire  of  praise; 
Though   nought    was   left   undone   which 

staff,  or  voice. 
Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,   could 

perform. 
But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old, 

could  stand 
Against  the   mountain  blasts,  and  to  the 

heights. 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways. 
He  with  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That   objects    which    the    shepherd   loved 

before 


Were  dearer  now?  that  from  the  boy  there 
came  200 

Feelings    and    emanations — things    which 
were 

Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind ; 

And  that  the  old  man's  heart  seemed  born 
again  ? 
Thus  in  his  father's  sight  the  boy  grew 
up: 

And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eight- 
eenth year. 

He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household 
lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there 

came 
Distressful  tidings.    Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  shepherd  had  been 
bound  210 

In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means; 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  pressed  upon  him ;  and  old  Michael 

now 
Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeit- 
ure, 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.    This  unlooked- 
for  claim. 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  sup- 
posed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost.  220 
As  soon   as  he  had  armed  himself  with 

strength 
To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 
The  shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at  once 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such   was    his   first   resolve;   he   thought 

again, 
And  his  heart  failed  him.     "Isabel,"  said 

he. 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
*T  have  been  toiling  more   than  seventy 

years. 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived;  yet  if  these  fields  of 
ours  230 

Should   pass    into   a    stranger's    hand,    I 

think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more   diligent  than  I ; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


47 


There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like 

this  239 

Had  been  no  sorrow.  I  forgive  him ; — but 
'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 
When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel ;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ; 
He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That    passes    over    it.      We    have,    thou 

know'st. 
Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.    He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade — and  Luke  to  him  shall 

go,         _  250 

And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own 

thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may  return  to  us.    If  here  he  stay. 
What  can  be  done?     Where  everyone  is 

poor, 
What  can  be  gained?" 

At  this  the  old  man 

paused, 
And  Isabel  was  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
"There's  Richard   Bateman,"  thought  she 

to  herself. 
"He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings, 

pence,  260 

And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the  neighbors 

bought 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  pedlar's 

wares ; 
And,  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there, 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas ;  where  he  grew  wondrous 

rich, 
And  left  estates  and  monies  to  the  poor, 
And    at    his    birth-place    built    a    chapel, 

floored 
W^ith  marble  which  he  sent  from  foreign 

lands."  270 

These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like 

sort, 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  man 

was  glad. 
And   thus  resumed:    "Well,    Isabel!    this 

scheme 
These  two  days  has  been  meat  and  drink 

to  me. 
Far  more  than   we  have  lost   is  left   us 

yet. 
We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 


Were  younger; — but  this  hope  is  a  good 
hope. 

Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the 
best 

Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him 
forth  280 

To-morrow,    or    the    next    day,    or    to- 
night : — 

If  he   could  go,  the  boy  should  go  to- 
night.'' 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields 
went  forth 

With  a  light  heart.     The  housewife   for 
five  days 

Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day 
long 

Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  pre- 
pare 

Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 

But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 

To  stop  her  in  her  work :  for,  when  she 
lay 

By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last  two 
nights  290 

Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his 
sleep : 

And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could 
see 

That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.    That  day 
at  noon 

She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  them- 
selves 

Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "Thou  must  not 
go: 

We  have  no  other  child  but  thee  to  lose, 

None  to  remember — do  not  go  away. 

For  if  thou  leave  thy  father  he  will  die." 

The  youth  made   answer  with   a  jocund 
voice ; 

And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears. 

Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best 
fare  301 

Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 

Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 
With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work  ; 

And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  ap- 
peared 

As   cheerful   as   a  grove   in   spring.     At 
length 

The  expected  letter   from  their  kinsman 
came, 

W^ith  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 

His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  boy; 

To  which  requests  were  added  that  forth- 
with 310 

He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or 
more 


48 


POEMS   OF  THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


The  letter  was  read  over ;  Isabel 

Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors 

round; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English 

land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.  When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  man 

said, 
"He   shall   depart  to-morrow."     To  this 

word 
The  housewife  answered,  talking  much  of 

things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should 

go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.    But  at  length 
She   gave   consent,   and   Michael   was   at 

ease.  321 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green- 
head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To    build    a    sheepfold;    and,    before   he 

heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  stream- 
let's edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he 

walked : 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place 
he  stopped,  330 

And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him :  "My 

son. 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me :  with  full 

heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories :  'twill  do  thee  good 
When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should 

touch 
On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.    After 

thou 

First  cam'st  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 

To    new-born    infants — thou    didst    sleep 

away  341 

Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  father's 

tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.    Day  by  day  passed 

on. 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fire- 
side 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural 
tune; 


While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy 

joy 
Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.     Month  fol- 
lowed month. 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And  on  the  mountains ;  else  I  think  that 

thou  351 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  father's 

knees. 
But    we    were    playmates,    Luke;    among 

these  hills, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and 

young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst 

thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 
Luke   had   a   manly   heart;   but  at   these 

words 
He  sobbed  aloud.     The  old  man  grasped 

his  hand, 
And  said,  "Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not 

speak.  360 

Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
A  kind  and  a  good  father;  and  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received   at   others'   hands ;    for,   though 

now  old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 
Remember   them    who    loved    me    in    my 

youth. 
Both   of  them  sleep  together:  here  they 

lived, 
As  all   their  forefathers  had  done;   and 

when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were 

not  loth 
To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 
I  wished  that  thou  shouldst  live  the  life 

they  lived :  371 

But   'tis   a   long  time   to   look  back,    my 

son. 
And    see   so   little   gain   from   threescore 

years. 
These   fields  were  burdened^  when   they 

came  to  me ; 
Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my 

work. 
And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land 

was  free. 
It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 
Another    master.      Heaven    forgive    me, 

Luke,  380 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That  thou  shouldst  go." 

At  this  the  old  man  paused; 
I  burdened.     Mortgaged. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


49 


Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which 

they  stood, 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed: 
"This  was  a  work  for  us;  and  now,  my 

son. 
It  is  a  work  for  me.    But,  lay  one  stone — 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own 

hands. 
Nay,  boy,  be  of  good  hope; — we  both  may 

live 
To  see  a  better  day.    At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale; — do  thou  thy 

part;  ...  390 

I  will  do  mine.     I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that   were   resigned  to 

thee : 
Up    to   the   heights,    and   in    among   the 

storms. 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone, 
Before  I   knew  thy    face.     Heaven   bless 

thee,  boy  I 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beat- 
ing fast 
With  many  hopes ;  it  should  be  so — yes — 

yes — 
I  know  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a 

wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke :  thou  hast  been  bound 

to  me  400 

Only  by  links  of  love :  when  thou  art  gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us !— But  I  forget 
My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  cornerstone, 
As  I  requested ;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When    thou    art   gone   away,    should   evil 

men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  son, 
And    of    this    moment;    hither    turn    thy 

thoughts. 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee;  amid  all 

fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
May'st  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  fathers 

lived,  410 

Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.    Now  fare  thee 

well — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place 

wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here :  a  covenant 
'Twill  be  between  us ;  but,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last. 
And   bear   thy   memory    with   me   to   the 

grave." 
The    shepherd   ended    here;    and   Luke 

stooped  down, 
And,  as  his  father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  sheepfold.    At  the 

sight  420 


The  old  man's  grief  broke  from  him;  to 

his  heart 
He   pressed  his   son,  he  kissed  him  and 

wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
— Hushed   was   that    house    in   peace,   or 

seeming  peace, 
Ere  the  night  fell : — with  morrow's  dawn 

the  boy 
Began    his    journey,    and    when    he    had 

reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face ; 
And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their 

doors. 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell 

prayers. 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  kinsman 

come,  431 

Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing:  and  the  boy 
Wrote   loving   letters,    full   of    wondrous 

news, 
Which,  as  the  housewife  phrased  it,  were 

throughout 
"The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both   parents    read    them    with   rejoicing 

hearts. 
So,   many   months   passed   on :   and   once 

again 
The  shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts ;  and 

now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure 

hour  440 

He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  the  sheepfold.  Meantime  Luke 

began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty;  and  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses :  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 
There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of 

love; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would   overset   the   brain,   or   break  the 

heart.  450 

I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who 

well 
Remember  the  old  man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to 

age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.    Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  to  sun  and 

cloud. 
And  listened  to  the  wind;  and,  as  before. 


50 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Performed    all    kinds    of    labor    for    his 

sheep, 
And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.     'Tis  not   forgotten 

yet  462 

The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  man — and  'tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and   many  a   day  he  thither 

went, 
And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 
There,  by  the  sheep  fold,  sometimes  was 

he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  or  with  his  faithful  dog. 
Then  old  beside  him  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time 

to  time,  470 

He    at    the    building    of    this    sheep  fold 

wrought. 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive   her   husband:   at  her   death   the 

estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  cottage  which  was  named  The  Even- 
ing Star 
Is  gone — the  ploughshare  has  been  through 

the  ground 
On  which  it  stood;  great  changes  have 

been  wrought 
In  all  the  neighborhood :— yet  the  oak  is 

left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  re- 
mains 480 
Of  the  unfinished  sheep  fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Greenhead 

Ghyll. 

(1800) 

LOCHINVAR 

(From  Marmion,  Canto  V) 
SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 

Oh!  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 

west. 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was 

the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons 

had  none. 
He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 

Lochinvar. 
He  stayed  not  for  brake  and  he  stopped 

not  for  stone. 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there 

was  none, 


But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 
late :  10 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch- 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among    bridesmen,     and    kinsmen,    and 

brothers,  and  all : 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on 

his  sword, — 
For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never 

a  word, — 
"Oh !  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye 

in  war. 
Or  to   dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar?" — 

'T  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you 
denied ; 

Love  swells  like  the  Solway,^  but  ebbs  like 
its  tide —  ^  20 

And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of 
mine 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of 
wine. 

There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  love- 
ly by  far. 

That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 
Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet:  the  knight 

took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw 

down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked 

up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her 

eye. 
He  took  her   soft  hand  ere   her  mother 

could  bar, — 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure!"  said  young 

Lochinvar.  30 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 
That  never  a   hall   such   a  galliard^   did 

grace ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father 

did  fume. 
And  the  bridegroom   stood  dangling  his 

bonnet  and  plume ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "'Twere 

better  by  far 
To   have   matched   our    fair   cousin    with 

young  Lochinvar." 

I  The  Solway  Firtn  is  noted  for  swiftly  changing 
tides. 

3  galliard.     A  dance. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


51 


One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in 

her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the 

charger  stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe ^  the  fair  lady  he 

swung. 
So    light    to    the    saddle    before    her    he 


sprung 


40 


"She   is   won !   we   are   gone,   over  bank, 

bush,  and  scaur  ;2 
They'll    have    fleet    steeds    that    follow," 

quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was   mounting  'mong  Graemes  of 

the  Netherby  clan ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they 

rode  and  they  ran : 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Canno- 

bie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did 

they  see. 
So  daring  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochinvar? 

(1808) 


MARMION  AND  DOUGLAS 

(From   Maniiion,   Canto   VI) 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

[Marmion  has  been  sent  as  an  envoy  from 
Henry  VIII  of  England  to  James  IV  of  Scot- 
land, who  has  defied  the  southern  ruler.  James 
receives  Marmion  and  sends  him  to  Tantallon 
Castle,  the  hall  of  Archibald  Douglas,  Earl  of 
Angus,  who  is  remaining  behind  the  Scottish 
army.  Presently,  learning  that  the  Scots  have 
crossed  into  England,  Marmion  leaves  Tantallon 
under  a  safe  conduct  to  join  the  English.] 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride; 
He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band 
Beneath  the  royal    eal  and  hand. 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide. 
The  ancient  earl  with  stately  grace 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whispered  in  an  undertone,  9 

"Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown." 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu : 

"Though  something  I  might  plain, "^  he 
said, 

1  croupe.     The  horse's  back  behind  the  saddle. 

2  scaur.     Cliff. 

3  plain.     Complain. 


"Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest. 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 
While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stayed, 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand." 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak. 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke : —  20 
"My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still* 
Be  open  at  my  sovereign's  will 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone, 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone, — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own. 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Burned    Marmion's    swarthy    cheek    like 
fire,  30 

And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire. 

And — "This  to  me!"  he   said. 
"An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  beard. 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head ! 
And  first  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate; 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here,      40 

Ej/en  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, — 
Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord. 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword, — 

I  tell  thee,  thou  'rt  defied ! 

And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied!" 
On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage      50 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age ; 
Fierce  he  broke  forth, — "And  darest  thou 

then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall? 
And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go? — 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no! 
Up    drawbridge,    grooms — what,    warder, 
ho! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall !" 

Lord    Marmion    turned, — well    was    his 

need, — ■ 
And  dashed  the  rowels'^  in  his  steed,      60 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung, — 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung; 

4  still.     Always. 

5  rowels.     The  wheels  of  the  spur. 


52 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  Toom, 
The  bars  descending  razed  his  plume. 
The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 
Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise; 
Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  lirim. 
And    when    Lord    Marmion    reached   his 
band,  69 

He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

(1808) 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL 

[The  Battle  of  Copenhagen  was  fought  April 
2,  1801,  to  break  up  Napoleon's  plan  for  a  coali- 
tion of  the  northern  powers  against  England. 
Nelson  led  a  detachment  of  the  British  fleet;  the 
Danes  were  commanded  by  the  Crown  Prince. 
Captain  Riou,  in  command  of  the  British  frigates, 
was    killed.] 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 
And   her   arms    along    the    deep   proudly 

shone ; 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold  determined  hand. 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat  10 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  .line  : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime. 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

For  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene ;  20 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"Hearts  of  oak!"  our  captains  cried,  when 

each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 


Again  !  again  1  again ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane  30 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom ; — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail. 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave : 

"Ye  are  brothers !  ye  are  men ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save ;  40 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring. 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet. 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king." 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief. 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 
As  death  withdrew  his  shades   from  the 
day ;  5° 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight. 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze. 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep  60 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep 

By  the  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore  I^ 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou ; 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their 

grave ! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles,  70 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave! 

(1809) 

I  The  fortress  of  Helsingfors,  commanding  the 
entrance  to  the  Baltic. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


53 


THE  DESTRUCTION   OF 

SENNACHERIB 

LORD    BYRON 

[This  poem  is_  one  of  a  number  of  "Hebrew 
Melodies,"  and  is  imagined  to  have  been  sung 
bv  the  Hebrews  in  the  days  of  King  Hezekiah; 
see  2  Kings,    18-19.] 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on 

the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple 

and  gold ; 
And  the   sheen   of  their  spears  was   like 

stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep 

Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Sum- 
mer is  green, 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset 
were  seen  : 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when 
Autumn  hath  blown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered 
and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings 

on  the  blast. 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 

passed;  lo 

And    the    eyes    of    the    sleepers    waxed 

deadly  and  chill. 
And  their   hearts   but   once  heaved,   and 

for  ever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril 

all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath 

of  his  pride; 
And  the   foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white 

on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating 

surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on 

his  mail : 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners 

alone,  ig 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur   are  loud   in 

their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of 

Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by 

the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of 

the  Lord! 

(l8i5) 


THE    PRISONER    OF   CHILLON 

GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON 

[An  actual  "prisoner  of  Chillon"  existed  in 
the  person  of  Frangois  de  Bonnivard,  who,  im- 
bued with  republican  ideas,  resisted  the  rule  of 
the  Duke  of  Savoy  and  was  imprisoned  from 
1530  to  1536.  He  was  confined  in  the  castle  of 
Chillon,  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Geneva  (or 
Leman).  The  success  of  the  republican  cause 
brought  about  his  release.  Byron  has  supplied 
the  two  brothers,  their  deaths,  and  the  story  of 
the  prisoner's  life.] 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night. 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears ; 
My    limbs    are    bowed,    though    not    with 
toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose. 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air  Q 

Are   banned,    and   barred — forbidden    fare. 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death; 
That   father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place; 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finished  as  they  had  begun. 

Proud  of   Persecution's   rage;  20 

One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed, 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast. 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old. 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray. 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray,  30 

A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left; 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing. 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain. 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away,      40 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day. 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 


54 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score, 
When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone. 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace,  50 

We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight: 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart, 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old,      60 
Or  song  heroically  bold; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 
A  grating  sound,  not  full  and  free, 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be ; 
It  might  be  fancy,  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three. 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest       70 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven — 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distressed 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me  80 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light. 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills. 
And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe  90 

Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind : 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  : — but  not  in  chains  to  pine : 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 


I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine :  100 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent     lie 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthrals : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay : 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were 
high  120 

And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshocked, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined. 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude. 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare,        130 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat. 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould    140 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold. 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side. 
But  why  delay  the  truth? — he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died,  and  they  unlocked  his  chain. 
And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave     150 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begged  them  as  a  boon  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


55 


Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
1  might  have  spared  my  Tdle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laughed,  and  laid  him  there : 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above  i6o 

The  being  we  so  much  did  love; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument! 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought. 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be      170 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood; 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean  180 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread: 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such — but  sure  and  slow : 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender,  kind. 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb,  191 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray ; 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light. 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright; 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur,  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost  200 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less. 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear; 

I  called,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear : 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished ; 

I  called,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound. 


And  rushed  to  him : — I  found  him  not, 
/  only  stirred  in  this  black  spot,  212 

/  only  lived,  /  only  drew 
The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew; 
The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink. 
Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race. 
Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 
One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 
My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe : 
I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still,      221 
Alas!  my  own  was  full  as  chill; 
I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 
But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 
A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 
That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death.  230 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 

I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too : 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist,''^ 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray; 
It  was  not  night,  it  was  not  day;  240 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight. 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space. 
And  fixedness  without  a  place ; 
There  were  no  stars,  no  earth,  no  time. 
No  check,  no  change,  no  good,  no  crime. 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness,  249 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless ! 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again. 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise. 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track ;  260 

I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 

I  wist.    Kn^w. 


56 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me !    270 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seemed  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink. 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine,   280 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise; 
For — Heaven    forgive   that    thought !    the 

while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile — 
I  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew. 
And  then  'twas  mortal  well  I  knew,      290 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown. 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone. 
Lone  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone  as  a  solitary  cloud, — 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere. 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate,         300 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate ; 

I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe. 

But  so  it  was : — my  broken  chain 

With  links  unfastened  did  remain. 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 

Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 

And  tread  it  over  every  part; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one,         310 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 

Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod. 

My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod; 

For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 

My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 

And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 


I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall. 
It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape. 

For  I  had  buried  one  and  all  320 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 

And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 

A  wider  prison  unto  me : 

No  child,  no  sire,  no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery; 

I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 

For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad ; 

But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 

To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 

Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high,    330 

The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

I  saw  them,  and  they  were  the  same. 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below. 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush ; 
I  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town. 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down;    340 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle. 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile. 

The  only  one  in  view; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor. 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees. 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  grow- 
ing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue.  350 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seemed  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain. 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode  360 

Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave. 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest. 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 
I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note, 

I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote; 

At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free ;         370 
I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where; 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


57 


It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last. 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home :  380 

With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade. 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell  I 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell; 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends. 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends  390 

To  make  us  what  we  are : — even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

(1816) 

CHRISTABEL 

Pakt  One 

SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE 

[This  poem  was  designed  to  be,  like  the  "Rime 
of  the  Ancient  Mariner,"  a  study  in  the  super- 
natural; see  the  note  on  page  33.  Part  One 
was  written  at  about  the  same  time  as  the  more 
famous  poem,  that  is,  in  1797.  Some  time  later 
Coleridge  added  a  second  part,  which  he  pub- 
lished with  the  first,  but  it  is  very  inferior;  the 
concluding  parts  were  never  written.  The  spir- 
itual theme  of  the  narrative  may  he  said  to  be 
the  power  of  purity  (symbolized  in  Christabel) 
to  protect  from  evil  (symbolized  in  Geraldine). 
The  reader  should  notice  that  the  supernaturally 
evil  character  of  Geraldine  is  subtly  hinted  at 
from  lines  139  to  259 ;_  she  avoids  stepping  over 
the  threshold  because  it  was  customary^  to  bless 
thresholds  as  a  guard  against  evil  spirits.  In 
Coleridge's  manuscript  he  wrote,  experimentally, 
a  line  after  252  to  rime  with  251:  "Are  lean  and 
old  and  foul  of  hue,"  but  rejected  it  for  the 
method   of  vag^ue   suggestion.] 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing 

cock, 
Tu-whit!    Tu-whoo! 
And  hark,  again !  the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  LeoHne,  the  Baron  rich, 
Had  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 
From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 
Maketh  answer  to  the  clock. 
Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the 
hour,  ID 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 


Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud; 
Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray;      20 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 
Whom  her  father  loves  so  well. 
What  makes  her  in  the  woods  so  late, 
A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate? 
She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 
Of  her  own  betrothed  knight; 
And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 
For   the    weal^    of   her   lover    that's    far 
away.  30 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 

The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 

And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak 

But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe : 

She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 

It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. —  40 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan. 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,      50 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the 
sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak. 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright. 
Dressed  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

I  weal.     Welfare. 


58 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone ;    60 
The  neck  that  made  the  white  robe  wan, 
Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare; 
Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandal'd  were, 
And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 
I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 
Beautiful  exceedingly! 

"Mary  mother,  save  me  now !"  69 

(Said  Christabel)  "And  who  art  thou?" 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet. 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet : — 
"Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness : 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear !" 
Said  Christabel,  "How  camest  thou  here?" 
And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and 

sweet, 
Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet:i 

"My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line. 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine :  80 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn : 

They   choked    my   cries   with    force   and 

fright. 
And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 
And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 
They   spurred   amain,    their   steeds    were 

white : 
And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 
As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 
I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be;      90 
Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 
(For  I  have  lain  entranced,  I  wis^) 
Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 
Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 
A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 
Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke : 
He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak; 
He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste; 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past,     100 
.Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand"  (thus  ended  she), 
"And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee." 

Then  Christabel  stretched  forth  her  hand. 
And  comforted  fair  Geraldine: 
"O  well,  bright  dame !  may  you  command 
The  service  of  Sir  Leoline ; 

1  meet.     Fitting. 

2  /  wis.  I  suppose  (a  misunderstood  form  of 
what  is  properly  one  word,  "iwis,"  meaning  "cer- 
tainly"). 


And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth,  and  friends  withal, 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free     no 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall." 

She  rose :  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 

That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest. 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel : 

"All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health. 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be. 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth,  120 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy. 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me." 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate; 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  with- 
out, 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had 
marched  out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain, 

And  Christabel  with  might  and  main      130 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight. 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate : 

Then  the  lady  rose  again, 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear. 
They  crossed  the  court;  right  glad  they 

were. 
And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  lady  by  her  side, 
"Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine  139 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress !" 
"Alas,  alas !"  said  Geraldine, 
"I  cannot  speak  from  weariness." 
So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 
They  crossed  the  court:  right  glad  they 

were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake, 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell  150 

Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch : 
I'^or  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still,^ 
Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will! 

3  still.     Always. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


59 


The   brands   were   flat,   the   brands    were 

dying, 
Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying; 
But  when  the  lady  passed,  there  came 
A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame; 
And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye,  i6o 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 
Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline 

tall, 
Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the 

wall. 
"O  softly  tread,"  said  Christabel, 
"My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well." 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare. 
And  jealous  of  the  listening  air 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom. 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room,    170 
As  still  as  death,  with  stifled  breath ! 
And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 

And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 

But  they  without  its  light  can  see 

The  chamber  carved  so  curiously. 

Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet. 

All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain,  180 

For  a  lady's  chamber  meet; 

The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 

Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 

The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  ft  bright. 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro. 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight. 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

"O  weary  lady,  Geraldine,  190 

I  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine ! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers ; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers." 

"And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn?" 
Christabel  answered — "Woe  is  me! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
I  have  heard  the  gray-haired  friar  tell 
How  on  her  death-l)ed  she  did  say, 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle-bell      200 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 
O  mother  dear!  that  thou  wert  here!" 
"I  would,"  said  Geraldine,  "she  were  I" 


But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she— 
"Off,  wandering  mother !    Peak  and  pine  I'- 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 
Alasl  what  ails  poor  Geraldine? 
Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy? 
And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she,    210 
"Off,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be. 
Off,  woman,  off!  'tis  given  to  me." 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 
"Alas !"  said  she,  "this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady!  it  hath  wildered  you!" 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow. 
And  faintly  said,  " 'Tis  over  now!"      219 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank : 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright : 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see. 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 

"All  they  who  live  in  the  upper  sky 

Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel! 

And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 

And  for  the  good  which  me  befell.       230 

Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try. 

Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 

But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 

Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie." 

Quoth  Christabel,  "So  let  it  be!" 

And  as  the  lady  bade;  did  she. 

Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 

And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 

So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro,    240 

That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close ; 

So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose. 

And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 

To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 
And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud. 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture-  from  beneath  her  breast : 
Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest,  250 

Dropp'd  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 

Behold !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 

O  shield  her !  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

I   Peak  and  pine.     Grow  thin  and  weak  (a  cursine 
formula). 

a  cincture.     Girdle. 


60 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs ; 
Ah !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay; 
Then  suddenly,  as  one  defied,  260 

Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  maiden's  side! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took. 

Ah  wel-a-day ! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 

These  words  did  say : 
"In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh 

a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to- 
morrow. 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my 
sorrow ; 

But  vainly  thou  warrest,  270 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare, 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard'st  a  low  moaning, 
And  found'st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly 

fair; 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee,  in 

love  and  in  charity, 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the 
damp  air." 


It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 

The  Lady  Christabel,  when  she  280       (1816) 

Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight. 

To  make  her  gentle  vows ; 
Her  slender  palms  together  press'd, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair,  not  pale. 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear. 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear.  291 

With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me!) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully. 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis, 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 
O  sorrow  and  shame !     Can  this  be  she, 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  tree? 
And  lo  I  the  worker  of  these  harms. 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild,  300 

As  a  mother  with  her  child. 


A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 
O  Geraldine!  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 
O  Geraldine !  one  hour  was  thine — 
Thou'st  had  thy  will !     By  tairn^  and  rill. 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still, 
But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 
From  cliff  and  tower,  tu-whoo!  tu-whoo! 
To-whoo !     tu-whoo !     from     wood     and 
fell !  2  310 

And  see!  the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes !  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 

Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitress,  320 

Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  unquietly. 
Perchance,  'tis  but  the  blood  so  free 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 
What  if  her  guardian  spirit  'twere. 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call:      330 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 

CHARLES    WOLFE 

[Sir  John  Moore  led  an  English  army  against 
the  French  in  Spain,  1808-1809.  His  forces  be- 
ing much  smaller  than  the  enemy's,  he  withdrew 
to  the  seacoast,  the  French  following,  and  on 
January  16,  1809,  engaged  and  repulsed  them  at 
Corunna,   but  was  himself  killed.] 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note. 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er    the    grave    where    our    hero    we 
buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night. 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

I  lairn.     Lake. 
3  fell.     Hill. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


61 


No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound 
him,  10 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest. 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that 
was  dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow 
bed 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread 
o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow !  20 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid 
him. 

But  half  of  our  weary  task  was  done 
When  the  clock  struck  the  note  for  re- 
tfring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
Of  the  enemy  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down. 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and 
gory ;  _  30 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not 
a  stone. 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

(1817) 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

JOHN   KEATS 

[This  poem  is  one  of  the  most  notable  attempts 
to  imitate  the  method  and  spirit  of  the  ballads 
of  medieval  romance.  The  title,  "The  Beautiful 
Merciless  Lady,"  Keats  obtained  from  an  old 
poem,  attributed  to  Chaucer,  translated  from  the 
jFrench.  It  has  been  supposed  that  he  symbolii.es 
in  the  story  his  unhappy  love  for  Fanny  Brawne.] 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full. 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew;     10 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. — 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head. 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone ;  ^ 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan.  20 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed. 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long. 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet. 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
"I  love  thee  true." 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full 
sore ;  30 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 
And  there  I  dreamed,  ah  woe  betide  I 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamt 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too. 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 
They  cried,  "La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 

Hath  thee  in  thrall !"  40 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide — 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here, 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though   the  sedge  is  withered   from  the 
lake 

And  no  birds  sing. 


(1820) 
I  tone. 


Girdle. 


62 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


THE   EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES 

JOHN    KEATS 

[The  feast  of  St.  Agnes  is  on  January  21.  In 
Rome  it  is  customary  on  that  day  to  dedicate  two 
lambs  to  the  saint,  and  the  wool  of  these  lambs 
is  afterward  woven  into  priestly  vestments;  see 
lines  71,  117.] 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The  hare    limped   trembling   through    the 

frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  ^  fingers,  while 

he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath. 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without 

a  death, 
Past  the  sweet   Virgin's  picture,  while 

his  prayer  he  saith. 

His    prayer   he    saith,    this    patient,    holy 

man;  lo 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 

knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem 

to  freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To    think    how    they   may    ache    in    icy 

hoods  and  mails. 

Northward    he    turneth    through    a    little 

door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden 

tongue  20 

Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no — already  had  his  deathbell  rung; 
The  joys   of   all   his   life    were    said   and 

sung: 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners' 

sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude 

soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was 

wide,  20 

From  hurry  to  and  fro.  Soon,  up  aloft, 
The    silver,    snarling    trumpets    'gan    to 

chide : 

I  Headsman.  One  appointed  to  pray  for  a  bene- 
factor's soul. 


The    level    chambers,    ready    with    their 
pride. 

Were    glowing    to    receive    a    thousand 
guests : 

The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 

Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cor- 
nice rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put 
crosswise  on  their  breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  2  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows,  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuffed,  in  youth,  with  tri- 
umphs gay  40 
Of  old  romance.    These  let  us  wish  away. 
And   turn,    sole-thoughted,    to    one    Lady 

there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry 

day. 
On  love,  and  winged   St.  Agnes'  saintly 
care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many 
times  declare. 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  de- 
light, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
H  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright;  50 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And    couch    supine    their    beauties,     lily 

white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of   Heaven   with   upward   eyes   for   all 
that  they  desire. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Made- 
line ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  di- 
vine. 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 

train 
Pass  by— she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired;  not  cooled  by  high  dis- 
dain, 61 
But  she  saw   not :   her  heart  was   other- 
where : 
She    sighed     for    Agnes'    dreams,    the 
sweetest  of  the  year. 

2  argent.     Silvery. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


63 


She  danced  along  with  vague,   regardless 

eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 

short : 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she 

sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid   looks   of   love,    defiance,   hate,   and 

scorn, 
Hoodwinked^     with     faery     fancy;     all 

amort,2  70 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 

And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 

morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the 

moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on 

fire 
For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors. 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and 

implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  un- 
seen ;  80 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in 
sooth  such  things  have  been. 

He  ventures   in :   let   no  buzzed   whisper 

tell: 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  feverous  cit- 
adel: 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes, 
Hyena  foemen.  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his   lineage :   not   one   breast   af- 
fords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and 
in  soul.  90 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame. 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The    sound    of    merriment    and    chorus 

bland : 

1  Hoodwinked.     Blinded. 

2  amort.      Dead. 


He  Startled  her;  but  soon   she  knew  his 

face. 
And   grasped    his    fingers    in    her    palsied 

hand, 
Saying,  "Mercy,  Porphyro!  hie  thee  from 

this  place; 
They  are   all   here   to-night,   the   whole 

blood-thirsty   race ! 

"Get  hence !   get  hence !   there's   dwarfish 

Hildebrand ;  100 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 

land : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not 

a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me ! 

flit! 
Flit    like   a   ghost   away." — "Ah,    Gossip'' 

dear. 
We're  safe  enough;  here  in  this  armchair 

sit, 
And    tell   me    how" — "Good    Saints!    not 

here,  not  here ; 
Follow   me,  child,   or  else  these   stones 

will  be  thy  bier." 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 
Brushing    the    cobwebs     with     his     lofty 

plume;  no 

And    as    she    muttered    "Well-a — well-a- 

day !" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving 

piously." 

St.  Agnes!     Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  ITege-lord  of  all  the   Elves  and 

Fays,  121 

To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's   help!    my   lady    fair    the    conjurer 

plays 
This  very  night ;  good  angels  her  deceive ! 
But   let   me  laugh   awhile,   I've   mickle 

time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepcth  closed  a  wond'rous   riddle- 
book,  130 
3  Gossip.     Godmother. 


64 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she 
told 

His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could 
brook  ^ 

Tears,   at  the  thought  of  those  enchant- 
ments cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends 
old. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown 

rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A    stratagem,    that    makes    the    beldame 

start: 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art :      140 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 

dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.    Go,  go! — I 

deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that 

thou  didst  seem." 

"I    will    not    harm    her,   by    all    saints   I 

swear," 
Quoth   Porphyro :    "O   may   I    ne'er  find 

grace 
When   my   weak  voice  shall   whisper   its 

last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face; 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears; 
Or  I   will,   even   in   a   moment's   space. 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,   my   foemen's 

ears,  152 

And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more 

fanged  than  wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken  churchyard 

thing. 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight 

toll; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and 

evening, 
Were  never  missed."    Thus  plaining,^  doth 

she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing,  160 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal 

or  woe. 

I  brook.     Restrain. 

a  plaining.     Complaining. 


Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there 

hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And   win  perhaps  that  night   a  peerless 

bride. 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held   her   sleepy- 
eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since   Merlin  paid   his   Demon   all  the 
monstrous  debt.^  171 

"It  shall   be   as   thou   wishest,"   said  the 

Dame; 
"All  cates*  and   dainties   shall  be  stored 

there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night:  by  the  tam- 
bour frame  ^ 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to 

spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;  kneel 

in  prayer 
The  while :  Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady 

wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among 

the  dead."  180 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his 

ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed,  and 

chaste; 
Where    Porphyro    took    covert,    pleased 

amain. 8 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues 

in  her  brain.  189 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  ^  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.    Now  prepare, 

3  Merlin  became  a  victim  of  one  of  his  own  magic 
spells. 

4  cates.     Delicacies. 

5  tambour    frame.     Drum-shaped     embroidery- 
frame. 

6  amain.     Greatly. 

7  missioned.     Sent  on  an  angel's  mission. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


65 


Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring- 
dove frayed  and  fled.  198 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died: 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  uttered  syllable,  or  woe  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should 
swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled, 
in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there 
was, 

ATI  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of 
knot-grass,  210 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  de- 
vice. 

Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked 
wings; 

And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  her- 
aldries. 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood 
of  queens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement   shone  the  wintry 

moon. 
And   threw   warm   gules^   on   Madeline's 

fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and 

boon; 
Rose-bloom   fell   on  her   hands,   together 

press'd,  220 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She    seemed     a     splendid     angel,     newly 

dress'd. 
Save  wings,  for  heaven :  Porphyro  grew 

faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from 

mortal  tamt. 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she 

frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her   rich    attire    creeps    rustling   to    her 

knees ;  230 

I  gules.     Red  (heraldic  color). 


Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  seaweed, 
Pensive   awhile   she   dreams   awake,    and 

sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 

But  dares  not   look  behind,  or  all  the 

charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she 
lay, 

Until    the   poppied    warmth    of   sleep   op- 
pressed 

Her    soothed    limbs,    and    soul    fatigued 
away; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow- 
day ; 

Blissfully    havened    both    from    joy    and 
pain ;  240 

Clasped  like  a  missal^  where  swart  Pay- 
nims^    pray; 

Blinded    alike    from    sunshine    and    from 
rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a 
bud  again. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he 

bless. 
And    breathed    himself:    then    from    the 

closet  crept,  249 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And     over     the     hushed     carpet,     silent, 

stepped. 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where, 

lo !  how  fast  she  slept. 

Then   by  the   bed-side,   where  the   faded 

moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half-anguished,  threw  there- 
on 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean*  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarinet. 
Affray    his    ears,    though    but    in    dying 
tone : —  260 

The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the 
noise  is  gone. 

a  missal.     Mass-book. 

3  Swarl   Poynims.     Dark   pagans    (Moslems,  la 
whose  land  a  (Christian  book  would  remain  closed). 

4  Morphtan.     Of  Morpheus  (god  of  dreams). 


66 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a 

heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 

gourd ; 
With    jellies    sootheri    than    the    creamy 

curd. 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct-  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one. 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Leb- 
anon. 270 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with   glowing 

hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver:  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling    the    chilly    room    with    perfume 

light.— 
"And    now,    my    love,    my    seraph    fair, 

awake ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  ;3 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I   shall   drowse  beside  thee,   so  my 

soul  doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank    in    her    pillow.      Shaded    was    her 

dream  281 

By  the  dusk  curtains : — 'twas  a  midnight 

charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The    lustrous    salvers    in    the    moonlight 

gleam : 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So   mused   awhile,   entoiled  in  woofed* 

phantasies. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 

Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tender- 
est  be,  290 

He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since 
mute, 

In  Province  called,  "La  belle  dame  sans 
mercy:"  ^ 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 

Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft 
moan : 

He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  sud- 
denly 

Her  blue  affrayed^  eyes  wide  open  shone : 

I  soother.     Smoother.  2  tinct.     Flavored. 

3  eremite.      Devotee.  4  woo/ed.      Woven. 

S  See  page  61. 


Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

Her  eyes  wide  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep: 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  ex- 
pelled 300 
The   blisses   of  her   dream   so   pure   and 

deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many 

a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would 

keep; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 
eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so 
dreamingly. 

"Ah,  Porphyro!"  she  said,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 

ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vov; ; 
And    those    sad   eyes    were    spiritual    and 

clear;  310 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill, 

and  drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings 

dear! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not 

where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  re- 
pose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose  320 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind 

blows 
Like  Love's   alarum  pattering   the   sharp 
sleet 
Against  the  window-panes:   St.  Agnes' 
moon  hath  set. 


'Tis  dark :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown 
sleet: 

"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Made- 
line!" 

'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and 
beat: 

6  ajfrayed.     Frightened. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


67 


"No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 

pine. — 
Cruel !    what    traitor    could    thee    hither 

bring?  330 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 

Though  thou  forsaicest  a  deceived  thing; — 

A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  un- 

pruned  wing." 

"My    Madeline !    sweet    dreamer  I    lovely 
bride ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  ver- 
meiU  dyed? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famished  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 
nest  340 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st 
well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  in- 
fidel. 

"Hark !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard-  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise — arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand; — 
The  bloated  wassailers^  will  never  heed  : — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 
There  are   no   ears   to  hear,   or   eyes   to 

see, — 
Drowned  all   in  Rhenish*  and  the  sleepy 

mead : 
Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a 

home  for  thee."  351 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For    there    were     sleeping    dragons     all 

around, 
At    glaring   watch,    perhaps,    with    ready 

spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they 

found. — 
In   all    the   house   was   heard   no  human 

sound. 
A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by 

each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and 

hound, 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And   the   long  carpets   rose   along   the 

gusty  floor.  360 

1  vermeil.     Vermilion. 

2  haggard.     Wild. 

3  wassaillers.     Drinking  banqueters. 

4  Rhenish.     Rhine  wine. 


They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide 

hall; 
Like   phantoms,    to   the    iron    porch,    they 

glide ; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook 

his   hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide : — 
The    chains    lie    silent   on    the    footworn 

stones ; — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its 

hinges  groans. 

And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago  370 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 

That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a 
woe. 

And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and 
form 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- 
worm, 

Were  long  be-nightmared.    Angela  the  old 

Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  de- 
form ;•'• 

The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves*'  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his 
ashes  cold. 

(1820) 


THE    RED    FISHERMAN 

WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED 

[The  date  represented  by  this  symbolic  poem 
is  evidently  1485,  that  of  the  Battle  of  Bosworth 
Field  (see  line  130),  in  which  Gloucester  (Rich- 
ard III)  met  his  death.  The  hero  may  be  sup- 
posed to  be  the  Abbot  of  Bury  St.  Edmunds  (see 
line  159),  a  powerful  monastery  whose  head  was 
entitled  to  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords.  Mis- 
tress Shore  (line  199)  was  a  favorite  of  the  late 
king,  Edward  IV,  who  is  doubtless  referred  to 
in  line  196.  The  mitre,  with  which  the  devil's 
hook  was  baited  for  the  Abbot  himself,  is  sym- 
bol of  the  office  of  bishop.] 

The  .A.bbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book, 

And  donned  his  sandal  shoon, 
.\nd  wandered  forth  alone,  to  look 

Upon  the  summer  moon. 
.\  starlight  sky  was  o'er  his  head, 

.A.  quiet  breeze  around ; 
And  the  flowers  a  thrilling  fragrance  shed, 

And  the  waves  a  soothing  sound : 

5  deform.     Distorted. 

6  aves.     Prayers  to  Mary. 


68 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


It  was  not  an  hour  nor  a  scene  for  aught 

But  love  and  calm  delight ;  lo 

Yet  the  holy  man  had  a  cloud  of  thought 

On  his  wrinkled  brow  that  night. 
He  gazed  on  the  river  that  gurgled  by, 

But  he  thought  not  of  the  reeds ; 
He  clasped  his  gilded  rosary, 

But  he  did  not  tell  the  beads; 
If  he  looked  to  the  heaven,  'twas  not  to 
invoke 

The  Spirit  that  dwelleth  there ; 
If  he  opened  his  lips,  the  words  they  spoke 

Had  never  the  tone  of  prayer.  20 

A  pious  priest  might  the  Abbot  seem, 

He  had  swayed  the  crozier  well  ; 
But  what  was  the  theme  of  the  Abbot's 
dream, 

The  Abbot  were  loth  to  tell. 

Companionless,  for  a  mile  or  more, 

He  traced  the  windings  of  the  shore. 

Oh,  beauteous  is  that  river  still, 

As  it  winds  by  many  a  sloping  hill, 

And  many  a  dim  o'erarching  grove, 

And  many  a  flat  and  sunny  cove,  30 

And  terraced  lawns,  whose  bright  arcades 

The  honeysuckle  sweetly  shades. 

And  rocks,  whose  very  crags  seem  bowers, 

So  gay  they  are  with  grass  and  flowers ! 

But  the  Abbot  was  thinking  of  scenery 

About  as  much,  in  sooth. 
As  a  lover  thinks  of  constancy, 

Or  an  advocate  ^  of  truth. 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  skies  in  wrath 

Grew  dark  above  his  head;  40 

He  did  not  mark  how  the  mossy  path 

Grew  damp  beneath  his  tread; 

And  nearer  he  came,  and  still  more  near, 

To  a  pool,  in  whose  recess 
The  water  had  slept  for  many  a  year, 

Unchanged  and  motionless; 
From  the  river  stream  it  spread  away 

The  space  of  half  a  rood; 
The  surface  had  the  hue  of  clay 

And  the  scent  of  human  blood;  50 

The  trees  and  the  herbs  that  round  it  grew 

Were  venomous  and  foul. 
And  the  birds  that  through  the  bushes  flew 

Were  the  vulture  and  the  owl ; 
The  water  was  as  dark  and  rank 

As  ever  a  Company  pumped, 
And  the  perch,  that  was  netted  and  laid 
on  the  bank, 

Grew  rotten  while  it  jumped; 

t  advocate.     Lawyer. 


And  bold  was  he  who  thither  came 

At  midnight,  man  or  boy,  60 

For  the   place   was   cursed  with   an   evil 
name, 
And  that  name  was  "The  Devil's  De- 
coy" ! 

The  Abbot  was  weary  as  abbot  could  be, 
And  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  stump  of 

a  tree : 
When  suddenly  rose  a  dismal  tone, — 
Was  it  a  song,  or  was  it  a  moan? — 
"O  ho!  O  ho! 
Above — below — 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go ! 
The  hungry  and  keen  on  the  top  are  leap- 
ing; 70 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleep- 
ing; 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy, 
Broiling  is  rich  when  the  coals  are  ruddy !" 
In  a  monstrous  fright,  by  the  murky  light, 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to 

the  right. 
And  what  was  the  vision  close  before  him, 
That  flung  such  a  sudden  stupor  o'er  him? 
'Twas  a  sight  to  make  the  hair  uprise, 

And  the  life-blood  colder  run : 
The  startled  priest  struck  both  his  thighs, 
And  the  abbey  clock  struck  one !         81 

All  alone,  by  the  side  of  the  pool, 
A  tall  man  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool, 
Kicking  his  heels  on  the  dewy  sod, 
And  putting  in  order  his  reel  and  rod; 
Red  were  the  rags  his  shoulders  wore. 
And  a  high  red  cap  on  his  head  he  bore ; 
His  arms  and  his  legs  were  long  and  bare; 
And  two  or  three  locks  of  long  red  hair 
Were  tossing  about  his  scraggy  neck      90 
Like  a  tattered  flag  o'er  a  splitting  wreck. 
It  might  be  time,  or  it  might  be  trouble. 
Had  bent  that  stout  back  nearly  double. 
Sunk  in  their  deep  and  hollow  sockets 
That  blazing  couple  of  Congreve  rockets,^ 
And  shrunk  and  shriveled  that  tawny  skin. 
Till  it  hardly  covered  the  bones  within. 

The  line  the  Abbot  saw  him  throw 

Had  been  fashioned  and  formed  long  ages 

ago. 
And  the  hands   that   worked  his    foreign 

vest  100 

Long  ages  ago  had  gone  to  their  rest : 

t  Congreve   rockets.     Military    rockets,    carrying 
balls  like  a  modern  shell. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


69 


You  would  have  sworn,  as  you  looked  on 

them, 
He  had  fished  in  the  flood  with  Ham  and 

Shem! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking 

of  locks, 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
Minnow  or  gentle,  worm  or  fly, — 
It  seemed  not  such  to  the  Abbot's  eye; 
Gaily  it  glittered  with  jewel   and  gem, 
And  its  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  diadem. 
It  was  fastened  a  gleaming  hook  about 
By  a  chain  within  and  a  chain  without; 
The  Fisherman  gave  it  a  kick  and  a  spin. 
And  the  water  fizzed  as  it  tumbled  in !  113 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

Strange  and  varied  sounds  had  birth; 

Now  the  battle's  bursting  peal, 

Neigh  of  steed,  and  clang  of  steel; 

Now  an  old  man's  hollow  groan 

Echoed  from  the  dungeon  stone; 

Now  the  weak  and  wailing  cry  120 

Of  a  stripling's  agony!  1 

Cold  by  this  was  the  midnight  air. 

But  the  Abbot's  blood  ran  colder, 
When  he  saw  a  gasping  knight  lie  there, 
With  a  gash  beneath  liis  clotted  hair. 

And  a  hump  upon  his  shoulder. 
And  the  loyal  churchman  strove  in  vain 

To  mutter  a  Pater  Noster; 
For  he  who  writhed  in  mortal  pain 
Was    camped    that    night    on    Bosworth 
plain —  130 

The  cruel  Duke  of  Gloster! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking 

of  locks, 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
It  was  a  haunch  2  of  princely  size. 
Filling  with  fragrance  earth  and  skies. 
The  corpulent  Abbot  knew  full  well 
The    swelling    form,    and    the    steaming 

smell ; 
Never  a  monk  that  wore  a  hood 
Could  better  have  guessed  the  very  wood 
Where  the  noble  hart  had  stood  at  bay, 
Weary  and  wounded,  at  close  of  day.    141 

Sounded  then  the  noisy  glee 
Of  a  reveling  company, — 
Sprightly  story,  wicked  jest, 
Rated  ^  servant,  greeted  guest, 

1  Victims  of  Gloucester's  cruelty. 

2  haunch.     Of  venison. 

3  rated.     Scolded. 


Flow  of  wine,  and  flight  of  cork. 
Stroke  of  knife,  and  thrust  of  fork; 
But,  where'er  the  board  was  spread, 
Grace,  1  ween,  was  never  said ! 
Pulling  and  tugging  the  Fisherman  sat, 

And  the  priest  was  ready  to  vomit,    151 
When  he  hauled  out  a  gentleman,  fine  and 

fat. 
With  a  belly  as  big  as  a  brimming  vat, 

And  a  nose  as  red  as  a  comet. 
"A  capital  stew,"  the  Fisherman  said, 

"With  cinnamon  and  sherry  !" 
And  the  Abbot  turned  away  his  head. 
For  his  brother  was  lying  before  him  dead. 

The  Mayor  of  St.  Edmund's  Bury! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking 

of  locks,  160 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
It  was  a  bundle  of  beautiful   things, — 
A  peacock's  tail,  and  a  butterfly's  wings, 
A  scarlet  slipper,  an  auburn  curl, 
A  mantle  of  silk,  and  a  bracelet  of  pearl, 
And  a  packet  of  letters,  from  whose  sweet 

fold 
Such  a  stream  of  delicate  odours  rolled 
That    the    Abbot    fell    on    his    face,    and 

fainted. 
And    deemed    his     spirit    was    half-way 

sainted. 

Sounds  seemed  dropping  from  the  skies. 
Stifled  whispers,  smothered  sighs,  171 

And  the  breath  of  vernal  gales. 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales: 
But  the  nightingales  were  mute. 
Envious,  when  an  unseen  lute 
Shaped  the  music  of  its  chords 
Into  passion's  thrilling  words: 
"Smile,  Lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  set 
Upon  my  brow  the  coronet. 
Till  thou  wilt  gather  roses  white  180 

To  wear  around  its  gems  of  light. 
Smile,  Lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  see 
Rivers  and  Hastings  bend  the  knee, 
Till  those  bewitching  lips  of  thine 
Win  bid  me  rise  in  bliss  from  mine. 
Smile,  Lady,  smile ! — for  who  would  win 
A  loveless  throne  through  guilt  and  sin? 
Or  who  would  reign  o'er  vale  and  hill. 
If  woman's  heart  were  rebel  still?" 

One  jerk,  and  there  a  lady  lay,  190 

A  lady  wondrous  fair; 
But  the  rose  of  her  lip  had  faded  away, 
And  her  cheek  was  as  white  and  as  cold 
as  clay. 

And  torn  was  her  raven  hair. 


70 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Ah  ha!"  said  the  Fisher,  in  merry  guise, 

"Her  gallant  was  hooked  before:" 
And  the  Abbot  heaved  some  piteous  sighs, 
For  oft  he  had  blessed  those  deep  blue 
eyes, 
The  eyes  of  Mistress  Shore ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking 
of  locks,  200 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
Many  the  cunning  sportsman  tried, 
Many  he  flung  with  a  frown  aside; 
A  minstrel's  harp,  and  a  miser's  chest, 
A  hermit's  cowl,  and  a  baron's  crest. 
Jewels  of  lustre,  robes  of  price, 
Tomes  of  heresy,  loaded  dice. 
And  golden  cups  of  the  brightest  wine 
That  ever  was  pressed  from  the  Burgundy 
vine.  209 

There  was  a  perfume  of  sulphur  and  nitre, 
As  he  came  at  last  to  a  bishop's  mitre ! 

From  top  to  toe  the  Abbot  shook. 

As  the  Fisherman  armed  his  golden  hook, 

And  awfully  were  his  features  wrought 

By  some  dark  dream  or  wakened  thought. 

Look  how  the  fearful  felon  gazes 

On  the  scaffold   his  country's  vengeance 

raises, 
When  the  lips  are  cracked  and  the  jaws 

are  dry 
With  the  thirst  which  only  in  death  shall 

die: 
Mark  the  mariner's  frenzied  frown       220 
As  the  swaling  1  wherry  settles  down, 
When  peril  has  numbed  the  sense  and  will. 
Though  the  hand  and  the  foot  may  strug- 
gle still : 
Wilder  far  was  the  Abbot's  glance. 
Deeper  far  was  the  Abbot's  trance: 
Fixed  as  a  monument,  still  as  air. 
He    bent    no   knee,   and    he   breathed   no 

prayer; 
But  he  signed — he  knew  not  why  or  how — 
The  sign  of  the  Cross  on  his  clammy  brow. 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking 
of  locks,  230 

As  he  stalked  away  with  his  iron  box. 
"O  ho!  O  hoi 
The  cock  doth  crow ; 

It  is  time  for  the  Fisher  to  rise  and  go. 

Fair  luck  to  the  Abbot,  fair  luck  to  the 
shrine ! 

He   hath    gnawed   in   twain   my    choicest 
line;  - 

r  siualing.      DisappearinR. 

2  By  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 


Let  him  swim  to  the  north,  let  him  swim 

to  the  south. 
The  Abbot   will   carry   my   hook   in   his 

mouth !" 

The  Abbot  had  preached  for  many  years 

With  as  clear  articulation  240 

As  ever  was  heard  in  the  House  of  Peers 

Against  Emancipation  ;3 
His  words  had  made  battalions  quake. 

Had  roused  the  zeal  of  martyrs, 
Had  kept  the  Court  an  hour  awake, 

And  the  King  himself  three  quarters; 
But  ever  from  that  hour,  'tis  said. 

He  stammered  and  he  stuttered. 
As  if  an  axe  went  through  his  head 

With  every  word  he  uttered.  250 

He  stuttered   o'er   blessing,   he   stuttered 
o'er  ban, 

He  stuttered,  drunk  or  dry ; 
And  none  but  he  and  the  Fisherman 

Could  tell  the  reason  why ! 

(1827) 


THE   BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM 

WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty;* 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly, — 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  the  County  Ball: 

There   when   the   sounds   of   flute   and 
fiddle  10 

Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 
Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romanc- 
ing: 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star; 
And  then  she  danced — oh,  heaven,  her 
dancing ! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white, 
Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender, 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light; 
I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender;  20 

3  Catholic      Emancipation,      a     parliamentary 
measure  of  the  period  when  the  poem  was  written. 

4  Chitty.     Document. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


71 


Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows; 

I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle, 
And    wondered    where    she'd    left    her 
sparrows. 


She  warbled  Handel, — it  was  grand, — 
She  made  the  Catalina^  jealous; 

She  touched  the  organ. — I  could  stand 
For  hours  and  hours  to  blow   the  bel- 
lows. 


She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers — 

Of   Southey's   prose,   or   Wordsworth's 
sonnets, 
Of  danglers^  or  of  dancing  bears. 

Of  battles,  or  the  last  new  bonnets. 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle;  30 

If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke. 

I   might  have  thought  they  murmured 
Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

1  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling. 
My  father  frowned;  but  how  should  gout 
See  any  happiness  in  kneeling?  40 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year, 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents, == 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations,  50 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

Oh!  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks, 

Such     wealth,     such     honors,      Cupid 
chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  Muses. 

She  sketched;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the 
beach. 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading; 
She  botanized;  I  envied  each  59 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading; 

danglers.     Flirts. 

2  three  per  cents.     Government  bonds. 


She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home. 

Well  filled  with  all  an  album's  glories; 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo.  69 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter, 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 

And  recipes  of  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped,  bored. 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was 
noted. 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored, 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  and  every  heart  was  glad 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished; 
She  frowned,  and  every  look  was  sad 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolished.        80 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute, 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so. 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh ! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver,  90 

A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves. 

And  "Fly  Not  Yet"  upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir. 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted — months  and  years  rolled  by; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after; 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh, 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laugh- 
ter. 100 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers. 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  belle, 

But  only — Mrs.  Something  Rogers  ! 

(1830) 
3  Catalina.     A  prima  donna  of  the  period. 


72 


POEMS   OF   THE  ENGLISH   RACE 


BONNY   DUNDEE 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

[John  Graham  of  Claverhouse,  Viscount  Dun- 
dee, supported  James  II  of  England  when  the 
Scotch  Parliament  had  taken  the  part  of  William 
of  Orange.  In  1689  he  defied  the  Parliament, 
marched  out  of  Edinburgh  with  his  followers, 
and  began  the  long  "Jacobite"  rebellion.] 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Clav- 

er'se  who  spoke, 
"Ere  the  King's  crown  shall  fall  there  are 

crowns  to  be  broke; 
So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honour  and 

me. 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 

can, 
Come   saddle  your  horses   and  call  up 

your  men; 
Come  open  the  West  Port^  and  let  me 

gang  free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 
Dundee!" 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the 

street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,^  the  drums 

they  are  beat ;  lo 

But  the  Provost,3  douce  *  man,  said,  "Just 

e'en  let  him  be, 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Dei! 

of  Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of 

the  Bow,5 
Ilk  carline   was  flyting  and   shaking  her 

pow;  ^ 
But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked 

couthie  and  slee,^ 
Thinking,  luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  Bonny 

Dundee! 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grassmar- 

ket  8  was  crammed 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be 

hanged ; 

r   Port.     Gate. 

2  rung  backward.  With  the  chimes  reversed, 
a  custom  in  giving  alarms. 

3  Provost.     Mayor. 

4  douce.     Prudent. 

5  hends  of  the  Bow.     Windings  of  Bow  Street. 

6  Every  old  woman  was  scolding  and  shaking  her 
head. 

7  cnulhie  and  slee.     Gracious  and  sly. 

8  Crassmarkel.     The  place  of  execution. 


There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was 

fear  in  each  e'e. 
As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 

Dundee.  20 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

These  cowls   of   Kilmarnock®  had   spits 
and  had  spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  i<>  to  kill  Cava- 
liers; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads  ^*  and  the 
causeway  was  free. 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Castle 

rock. 
And   with   the   gay  Gordon  he   gallantly 

spoke ; 
"Let    Mons    Meg  ^2   and   her   marrows  ^' 

speak  twa  words  or  three. 
For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which'  way 
he  goes — 

"Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of 
Montrose!  1*  30 

Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tid- 
ings of  me, 

Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There    are    hills    beyond    Pentland    and 
lands  beyond  Forth, 

If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's 
chiefs  in  the  North; 

There  are  wild  Duniewassals  "^^  three  thou- 
sand times  three, 

Will  cry  hoigh!  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened^^ 

bull-hide ; 
There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles 

beside ; 


Men 


Kilmarnock 


9  cowh    of    Kilmarnock. 
cowls, — Presbyterians. 

10  gullies.      Knives. 

11  close-heads.     Blind  alleys. 

12  Mons  Meg.     A  cannon, 
i.^  marrows.      Mates. 

14  Montrose  had  supported  Charles  I.  and  been 
executed  by  the  Covenanters  in  iftso. 

15  Uuniewassals.     Gentlemen  of  low  degree. 

16  barkened.     Bark-tanned. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


n 


The  brass    shall    be   burnished,   the   steel 
shall  flash  free,  39 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the 

rocks — 
Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the 

fox; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of 

your  glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet 

and  me !" 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand  and  the  trum- 
pets were  blown. 
The  kettle-drums  clashed  and  the  horse- 
men rode  on, 
Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermi- 

ston's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 

can. 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up  the 
men,  50 

Come  open  your  gates  and  let  me  gae 

free. 
For  it's  up  with  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 
Dundee ! 

(1830) 


THE   SILENT  TOWER  OF 
BOTTREAU 

ROBERT    STEPHEN    HAWKER 

[Ttntadgel  (more  commonly  written  Tintagel) 
is  on  the  coast  of  Cornwall.  Here  Hawker  found 
a  church-tower  without  bells.  "On  enquiry  I 
was  told  that  the  bells  were  once  shipped  for 
this  church,  but  that  when  the  vessel  was  within 
sight  of  the  tower  the  blasphemy  of  her  captain 
was  punished  in  the  manner  related  in  the 
poem."] 

Tintadgel  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide, 
The  boy  leans  on  his  vessel  side; 
He  hears  that  sound,  and  dreams  of  home 
Soothe  the   wild   orphan   of  the   foam. 
"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!" 
Thus  saith  their  pealing  chime : 
Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 
"Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 


But  why  are  Bottreau's  echoes  still? 

Her  tower  stands  proudly  on  the  hill ;     10 

Yet  the   strange  chough   that   home  hath 

found, 
The  lamb  lies  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time !" 

Should  be  her  answering  chime : 

"Come  to  thy  God  at  last  1" 

Should  echo  on  the  blast. 

The  ship  rode  down  with  courses  free, 
The  daughter  of  a  distant  sea : 
Her  sheet  was  loose,  her  anchor  stored. 
The  merry  Bottreau  bells  on  board.        20 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!" 

Rung  out  Tintadgel  chime; 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

"Come  to  thy  God  at  last !" 

The  pilot  heard  his  native  bells 
Hang  on  the  breeze  in  fitful  swells ; 
"Thank  God,"  with  reverent  brow  he  cried, 
"We  make  the  shore  with  evening's  tide." 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time !" 

It  was  his  marriage  chime :  30 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  must  ring  at  last. 

"Thank  God,  thou  whining  knave,  on  land. 
But  thank,  at  sea,  the  steersman's  hand," 
The  captain's  voice  above  the  gale : 
"Thank  the  good  ship  and  ready  sail." 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!" 

Sad  grew  the  boding  chime  : 

"Come  to  thy  God  at  last !" 

Boomed  heavy  on  the  blast.  40 

Uprose  that  sea!  as  if  it  heard 
The  mighty  Master's  signal-word  : 
What  thrills  the  captain's  whitening  lip? 
The  death-groans  of  his  sinking  ship. 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!" 

Swung  deep  the  funeral  chime : 

Grace,  mercy,  kindness  past, 

"Come  to  thy  God  at  last !" 


Long  did  the  rescued  pilot  tell — 
When  gray  hairs  o'er  his  forehead  fell,  50 
While    those    around    would     hear    and 

weep — 
That  fearful  judgment  of  the  deep. 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time !" 

He  read  his  native  chime: 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  rung  out  at  last. 


74 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Still  when  the  storm  of  Bottreau's  waves 
Is  wakening  in  his  weedy  caves, 
Those  bells,  that  sullen  surges  hide. 
Peal  their  deep  notes  beneath  the  tide :  60 

"Come  to  thy  God  in  time!" 

Thus  saith  the  ocean  chime : 

Storm,  billow,  whirlwind  past, 

"Come  to  thy  God  at  last !" 

(1831) 


THE  LADY  OF   SHALOTT 

ALFRED   TENNYSON 

[This  poem  is  a  kind  of  symbolic  version  of 
the  story  of  Lancelot  and  Elaine  (see  page  160). 
In  both  versions  Sir  Lancelot  is  represented  as 
unconsciously  awakening  the  maiden  out  of  the 
dream-life  of  her  younger  days,  her  love  for  him 
proving  a  curse  because  unrequited.  With  ref- 
erence to  the  closing  lines  of  Part  II,  Tennyson 
said:  "The  new-born  love  for  something,  for 
someone  in  the  wide  world  from  which  she  has 
been  so  long  secluded,  takes  her  out  of  the 
region  of  shadows  into  that  of  realities."] 

PART  I 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  ^  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go. 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below. 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver,  10 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and   four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 

Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd  20 

By  slow  horses;  and  unhail'd 

The  shallop  fiitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot; 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 
I  wold.     Down  (tract  of  rolling  land). 


Only  reapers,  reaping*  early 

In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly  30 

From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot; 
And  by  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  "  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

PART  II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 

A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 

A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 2  40 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be. 
And  so  she  weaveth   steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot;         50 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad. 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad,^ 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue    60 
The  knights   come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights. 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot; 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed :       70 
"I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 

2  stay.     Stop. 

3  pad.     Road-horse. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


75 


The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellovir  field,         80 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy.i 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric^  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung. 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung. 

Beside  remote  Shalott.  90 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot; 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright. 
Some  bearded^  meteor,  trailing  light. 

Moves  over  still  Shalott.  99 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room,  110 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  IV 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining. 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning. 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complain- 
ing, 120 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 
Over  tower'd  Camelot; 

1  ?oM«n  Galaxy.     Milky  Way. 

2  baldric.     Belt. 

i  bearded.     Having  a  tail  or  trail. 


Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance  130 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot;     140 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide       150 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame,     160 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer, 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace,  170 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

(1832) 


76 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


THE   LAST    BUCCANEER 
THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY 

The  winds  were  yelling,  the  waves  were 
swelh'ng, 
The  sky  was  black  and  drear, 
When  the  crew  with  eyes  of  flame  brought 
the  ship  without  a  name 
Alongside  the  last  Buccaneer.i 

"Whence  flies  your  sloop  full  sail  before 

so  fierce  a  gale. 

When  all  others  drive  bare  on  the  seas? 

Say,  come  ye  from  the  shore  of  the  holy 

Salvador,2 

Or  the  Gulf  of  the  rich  Caribbees?"^ 

"From   a   shore   no   search   hath    found, 
from  a  gulf  no  line  can  sound, 
Without  rudder  or  needle  we  steer ;    lo 
Above,  below  our  bark,  dies  the  sea- fowl 
and  the  shark. 
As  we  fly  by  the  last  Buccaneer. 

"To-night   there   shall   be   heard    on   the 
rocks  of  Cape  de  Verde, 
A  loud  crash,  and  a  louder  roar ; 
And   to-morrow    shall   the   deep,   with   a 
heavy  moaning,  sweep 
The  corpses  and  wreck  to  the  shore." 

The  stately  ship  of  Clyde*  securely  now 
may  ride. 
In  the  breath  of  the  citron  shades ; 
And    Severn's*    towering    mast    securely 
now  flies  fast,  19 

Through  the  sea  of  the  balmy  Trades. 

From     St.     Jago's     worthy     port,     from 
Havana's  royal  fort. 
The  seaman  goes  forth  without  fear; 
For  since  that  stormy  night  not  a  mortal 
hath  had  sight 
Of  the  flag  of  the  last  Buccaneer. 

(1839) 

1  Buccaneer.  One  of  the  pirate  ships  engaged  in 
preying  on  American  commerce  in  the  seventeenth 
century. 

2  the  holy  Salvador.     San  Salvador. 

3  The  Caribbean  Sea. 

4  Clyde  .  .  .  Severn,  Rivers  famous  for  their 
shipyards. 


THE  JACKDAW   OF  RHEIMS 

RICHARD    HARRIS    BARHAM 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair ! 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there ; 
Many  a  monk,  and  many  a  friar. 
Many  a  knight,  and  many  a  squire, 
With   a  great  many  more  of  lesser  de- 
gree- 
In  sooth  a  goodly  company ; 
And   they   served   the   Lord    Primate   on 
bended  knee. 
Never,  I  ween,  was  a  prouder  seen. 
Read  of  in  books,  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams, 
Than  the   Cardinal   Lord   Archbishop  of 
Rheims !  10 

In  and  out,  through  the  motley  rout, 
That  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about ; 
Here  and  there,  like  a  dog  in  a  fair. 
Over   comfits^    and    cates,^   and    dishes 
and  plates. 
Cowl  and  cope,  and  rochet^  and  pall, 
Mitre  and  crosier — he  hopped  upon  all ! 

With  saucy  air  he  perched  on  the  chair 
Where  in  state  the  great  Lord  Cardinal 

sat 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red 
hat ; 
And  he  peered  in  the  face  of  his  Lord- 
ship's Grace,  20 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  he  would  say, 
"We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  here  to- 
day!" 
And    the    priests,    with    awe,    as    such 
freaks  they  saw. 
Said  "The  devil  must  be  that  little  Jack- 
daw 1" 

The  feast  was  over,  the  board  was  cleared. 

The  flawns*  and  the  custards  had  all  dis- 
appeared. 

And  six  little  singing-boys, — dear  little 
souls ! 

In  nice  clean  faces,  and  nice  white  stoles, 
Came  in  order  due,  two  by  two,  29 

Marching  that  grand  refectory  through ! 

A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer. 

Embossed,  and  filled  with  water  as  pure 

As  any  that  flows  between  Rheims  and 
Namur. 

Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to 
catch 

In  a  fine  golden  hand-basin  made  to 
match. 

I  comfits.     Preserves.     2   cates.     Delicacies. 

3  rochet.     A  bishop's  vestment. 

4  flawn.     A  kind  of  custard  pie. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


77 


Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown, 
Carried     lavender     water     and     eau     de 

Cologne; 
And  a  nice  little  boy  had  a  nice  cake  of 

soap, 
Worthy  of  washing  the  hands  of  the  Pope. 
One  little  boy  more  a  napkin  bore,      40 
Of  the   best  white   diaper,    fringed   with 

pink. 
And  a  cardinal's  hat  marked  in  permanent 

ink. 

The   great   Lord    Cardinal    turns    at   the 

sight 
Of   these   nice   little  boys    dressed   all   in 

white : 
From   his    finger  he   draws    his   costly 

turquoise. 
And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  jack- 
daws. 
Deposits  it  straight  by  the  side  of  his 

plate, 
While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Eminence 

wait; 
Till,  when  nobody's  dreaming  of  any  such 

thing,  49 

That  little  Jackdaw  hops  off  with  the  ring ! 

There's  a  cry  and  a  shout,  and  a  deuce 
of  a  rout, 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they're 

about. 
But    the    monks    have    their    pockets    all 
turned  inside  out; 
The   friars   are   kneeling,   and   hunting, 
and  feeling 
The  carpet,  the  floor,  and  the  walls,  and 
the  ceiling. 
The  Cardinal  drew  off  each  plum-colored 
shoe, 
And  left  his  red  stockings  exposed  to  the 
view; 
He  peeps,  and  he  feels  in  the  toes  and 
the  heels ; 
They  turn  up  the  dishes — they  turn  up  the 

plates — 
They  take  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the 
grates —  60 

They  turn   up  the  rugs — they  examine 

the  mugs, — 
But  no  ! — no  such  thing, — they  can't  find 
THE  RING! 
And  the  Abbot  declared  that,   "when  no- 
body twigged  ^  it, 
Some  rascal  or  other  had  popped  in  and 
prigged  2  it !" 

r  twigged.     Noticed. 
2  prigged.     Stolen. 


The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look. 
He  called  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his 

book ! 
In  holy  anger,  and  pious  grief, 
He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascally  thief! 
He  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him 

in  bed; 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown 

of  his  head;  70 

He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every 

night 
He  should  dream  of  the  devil,  and  wake 

in  a  fright ; 
He  cursed  him  in  eating,  he  cursed  him 

in  drinking. 
He  cursed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing, 

in  winking; 
He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in 

lying; 
He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in 

flying. 
He  cursed  him  living,  he  cursed  him  dy- 
ing! 
Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse; 

But,  what  gave  rise  to  no  little  surprise. 
Nobody  seemed  one  penny  the  worse !    80 

The  day  was  gone,  the  night  came  on. 
The  monks  and  the  friars  they  searched 
till  dawn. 
When  the  sacristan  saw,  on  crumpled 
claw, 
Come  "limping  a  poor  little  lame  Jackdaw. 

No  longer  gay  as  on  yesterday. 
His  feathers  all  seemed  to  be  turned  the 

wrong  way, — 
His    pinions    drooped — he    could    hardly 

stand — 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your 
hand; 
His  eye  so  dim,  so  wasted  each  limb. 
That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried 
"That's  HIM!  90 

That's  the  scamp  that  has  done  this  scan- 
dalous thing! 
That's   the   thief   that  has   got   my   Lord 
Cardinal's  ring!" 
The    poor    little    Jackdaw,     when    the 
monks  he  saw, 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw, 
And  turned  his  bald  head,  as  much  as  to 

say, 
"Pray  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way !" 
Slower  and  slower  he  limped  on  before, 
Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry 
door, 


78 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Where  the  first  thing  they  saw,  midst  the 
sticks  and  the  straw, 
Was  the  RING  in  the  nest  of  that  little 
Jackdaw !  loo 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  called  for 
his  book, 

And  off  that  terrible  curse  he  took; 
The  mute  expression  served  in  lieu  of 
confession, 

And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  restitu- 
tion, 

The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution ! 
When  those  words  were  heard,  that  poor 
little  bird 

Was  so  changed  in  a  moment,  'twas  really 
absurd : 
He  grew  sleek  and  fat, — in  addition  to 
that, 

A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a 
mat! 
His  tail  waggled   more  even  than   be- 
fore; .  no 

But  no  longer  it  wagged  with  an  impudent 
air. 

No  longer  he  perched  on  the  Cardinal's 
chair. 
He  now  hopped  about  with  a  gait  de- 
vout; 

At  matins,  at  vespers,  he  never  was  out; 

And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds, 

He  always  seemed  telling  the  Confessor's 
beads. 
If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore, 

Or  slumbered  in  prayer-time  and  happened 
to  snore, 
That  good  Jackdaw  would  give  a  great 
"Caw !" 

As  much   as   to   say,   "Don't   do   so  any 
more !"  120 

While   many    remarked,    as   his    manners 
they  saw, 

That  they  never  had  known  such  a  pious 
Jackdaw. 
He  long  lived  the  pride  of  that  country- 
side, . 

And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died; 
When,  as  words  were  too  faint  his  mer- 
its to  paint, 

The  Conclave  determined  to  make  him  a 
saint ; 

And  on  newly  made  saints  and  Popes,  as 
you  know. 

It's  the  custom  at  Rome  new  names  to  be- 
stow,— 

So  they  canonized  him  by  the  name  of 
Jim  Crow! 

(1840) 


THE    SKELETON    IN    ARMOR 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

[This  poem  was  suggested  to  Longfellow  by 
the  discovery  of  an  ancient  skeleton  in  armor, 
unearthed  at  Fall  River.  Massachusetts,  in  1839, 
in  connection  with  the  Round  Tower"  at  New- 
port (see  line  134),  which  was  supposed  to  be  a 
relic  of  early  Norse  settlements  in  America.] 

"Speak!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  dressed, 

Comest  to  daunt  me! 
Wrapped  not  in  eastern  balms. 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?" 

Then  from  those  cavernous  eyes 

Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise,  lo 

As  when  the  northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December  ;i 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"I  was  a  Viking  old ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold. 

No  Skald  2  in  song  has  told, 

No  saga  taught  thee !  20 

Take  heed  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon  ;3 
And,  with  my  skates  fast  found. 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound,  30 

That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  *  bark. 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow.  40 

1  The  aurora  borealis. 

2  Skald.     Poet. 

3  gerfalcon.     Large  Arctic  falcon. 

4  were-wolf.  A  wolf  incorporating  the  soul  of  a 
man. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


79 


"But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  hfe  we  led; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled. 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"Many  a  wassail-bout  * 

Wore  the  long  winter  out;  50 

Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  2  tale  * 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale. 
Draining  the  oaken  pail 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea. 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender;  60 

And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid. 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
P'luttered  her  little  breast,  fO 

Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall. 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand. 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story.  80 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

1  wassail-bout.     Drinking  feast. 

2  Berserk.     Wild  warrior. 

3  tale.     Portion. 


"She  was  a  prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild,  90 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight? 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded? 

"Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea. 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! —  100 

When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand. 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast. 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw,*  no 

So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
'Death !'  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

'Death  without  quarter!' 
Midships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water!  120 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant. 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant. 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main. 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane. 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 

And  when  the  storm  was  o'er,  130 

Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower. 
Which,  to  this  very  hour. 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears. 

She  was  a  mother.  140 

4  Skaw.     A  Jutland  cape. 


80 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes ; 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another, 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then. 
Still  as  a  stagnant   fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear; 

Oh,  death  was  grateful! 

"Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars. 
Bursting  these  prison  bars. 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal!^  to  the  Northland!  skoal!' 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 


ISO 


l6o 


(1841) 


HORATIUS 


A  LAY   MADE  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY 
CCCLX 

THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY 

[Macaulay  supposes  this  poem  to  be  a  popular 
ballad  among  the  Romans,  written  about  390  B.C., 
but  dealing  with  events  of  about  510  B.C.  At 
that  period  Rome  was  a  city  ruling  but  a  few 
square  miles  of  territory,  and  the  Etruscan  do- 
minions of  Lars  Porsena  were  of  much  greater 
extent.  The  Tarquin  kings  had  been  expelled 
from  Rome  after  Sextus,  the  son  of  Tarquinius 
Superbus,  had  insulted  and  assaulted  the  matron 
Lucretia;  Lars  Porsena  then  gathered  an  army 
with  the  intention  of  forcing  the  Tarquins  upon 
the  city  again.] 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride   forth. 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north  10 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 

I  Sknal!  Hail  I  (The  Icelandic  salutation  when 
abealth  is  pledged.) 


Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home, 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place,  20 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine; 

From  lordly  Volaterrae, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old; 
From  seagirt  Populonia,  30 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain-tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky; 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisae, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves ; 
From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven      40 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  Dark  Auser's  rill; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear; 
Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill ;  50 

No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  g^een  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill; 
Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer; 
Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium 

This  year  old  men  shall  reap; 
This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep ;      60 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna 

This  year  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


81 


There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand; 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er,         _       70 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 


And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine, 
And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep. 

And  endless  herds  of  kine, 
And  endless  trains  of  wagons 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 

Choked  every  roaring  gate.  120 


And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 
Have  their  glad  answer  given  : 

"Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena; 
Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven; 

Go,  and  return  in  glory 
To  Clusium's  royal  dome, 

And  hang  round  Nurscia's  ^  altars 
The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 


80 


Now  from  the  rock  Tarpeian 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 


And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium  2 

Is  met  the  great  array. 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 


To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands ; 
Nor  house  nor  fence  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain ; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum,  _ 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 


130 


For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 
And  many  a  banished  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally ; 
And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 


I  wis,3  in  all  the  Senate, 
90  There  was  no  heart  so  bold. 

But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat. 

When  that  ill  news  was  told.  140 

Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 


But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight.  lOO 

A  mile  around  the  city 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways ; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

For  aged  folks  on  crutches. 

And  women  great  with  child, 
And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled. 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves,  HO 

And  troops  of  sunburned  husbandmen 

W^ith  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

1  Nurscia.     The  goddess  of  fortune. 

2  Sutrium.     Forty  miles  from  Rome,  command- 
ing the  road  into  Etruria. 


They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River  Gate; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly : 

"The  bridge  must  straight  go  down ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost,  151 

Nought  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying. 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear: 
"To  arms!  to  arms!  Sir  Consul; 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky.  160 

3   /  uis.     Properly  one  word,  meaning  surety,  but 
often  understood  to  pi?an  "I  know." 


82 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  nearer  fast,  and  nearer, 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come; 
And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud, 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right. 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light,     170 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly. 

Above  that  glimmering  line. 
Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine; 
But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 

Was  highest  of  them  all, 
The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul.  180 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 

Each   warlike   Lucumo.i 
There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen ;  ^ 
And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield. 
Girt  with  the  brand^  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 
And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold      190 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes,  200 

A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed, 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad. 
And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 

And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall,  210 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 

1  Lucumo.     Etruscan  chief. 

2  brand.     Sword. 


"Their  van  will  be  upon  us 
Before  the  bridge  goes  down ;  ^ 

And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 
What  hope  to  save  the  town?" 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate: 
"To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better  220 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 

"And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus  230 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame? 

"Hew  down  the  bridge.  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait^  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius;  240 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he : 
"Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he: 
"I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

"Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul,  250 

"As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold. 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Then  none  was  for  party ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state ; 
Then  the  great  man  helped  tlie  poor,    260 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great: 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold ; 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

3  strait.     Narrow 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


83 


Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe; 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction,  270 

In  battle  we  wax  cold: 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe; 
And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above,      280 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold. 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee. 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three.     292 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes. 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose; 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they 

drew. 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew  300 

To  win  the  narrow  way : 

Annus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines ; 
And  Picus,  long  to  Ciusium 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war. 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  grey  crag  where,  girt  with  tow- 
ers. 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers        310 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Annus 

Into  the  stream  beneath ; 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth ; 


At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust. 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii  320 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields  and  slaughtered  men 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns;  330 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low ; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
"Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "fell  pirate ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice  accursed  sail."  340 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  length  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array. 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

But  hark!  the  cry  is  Astur; 

And  lo !  the  ranks  divide;  350 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield. 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye.  360 

Quoth  he,  "The  she-wolf's  litter* 

Stand  savagely  at  bay ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way?" 

I  Alluding  to  the  legend  of  the  nursing  of  Romu- 
lus and  Remus  by  a  wolf. 


84 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow.  370 

The  blow,   though   turned,   came  yet   too 

nigh; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh: 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 


He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space ; 
Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds. 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped,  380 

The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke. 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak; 
Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread, 
And  the  pale  augurs, 1  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 


On  Astur's  throat  Horatius  390 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel. 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
"And  see,"  he  cried,  "the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer?" 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran. 
Mingled  of  wrath  and  shame  and  dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van.  401 

There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race; 
For  all   Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  that  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses. 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three; 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance  410 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 

I  augurs.      Priestly  interpreters  of  omens. 


All  shrank,  like  boys  who,  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare. 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 
Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack; 
But  those  behind  cried  "Forward !" 

And  those  before  cried  "Back!"     •     420 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud,      430 
"Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home! 
Why  dost  thou  stay  and  turn  away? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury. 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way  440 

Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood. 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius !" 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
"Back,  Lartius  !  back,  Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruins  fall !"  450 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius; 

Herminius  darted  back ; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 


But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 
l<'ell  every  loosened  beam. 

And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 
Lay  right  athwart  the  stream; 


460 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


85 


And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 
Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 

As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 
Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane,  470 

And  burst  the  curb  and  bounded. 

Rejoicing  to  be  free, 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career. 
Battlement  and  plank  and  pier. 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"Down  with  him,"  cried  false  Sextus,  480 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 
Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river  490 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

"Oh,  Tiber!  father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day!" 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back. 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow  500 

Was  heard  from  either  bank; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise. 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes. 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry. 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current,  510 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain ; 

And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing. 
And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 


And  heavy  with  liis  armour, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows ; 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking. 
But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil   case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood    520 

Safe  to  the  landing-place; 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber  1 

Bore  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"Curse  on  him  I"  quoth  false  Sextus; 

"Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town!" 
"Heaven  help  him!"  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"And  bring  him  safe  to  shore :  531 

For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping. 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud. 
He  enters  through  the  River  Gate,      540 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land. 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image. 

And  set  it  up  on  high. 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium,^  550 

Plain  for  all   folk  to  see; 
Horatius  in  his  harness. 

Halting^  upon  one  knee : 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold. 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the"  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home;  561 

1  The  god  of  the  river. 

2  Comilium.     A  space  fronting  the  senate-house 
in  the  Forum. 

3  Limping. 


86 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage  570 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets,     580 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows; 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armour, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom ; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

(1842) 


MY  LAST   DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

IThe  Duke  of  Ferrara  is  supposed  to  be  speak- 
ing,— a  typical  character  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance, when  unscrupulous  cruelty  and  artistic 
taste  were  not  infrequently  found  in  combination. 
This  is  a  true  "dramatic"  monologue,  in  that 
some  little  action,  as  well  as  character  portrayal, 
is  implied  in  the  speaker's  words.  The  names 
of  the  painter  and  the  sculptor,  Fra  Pandolf  and 
Claus  of  Innsbruck,  are  fictitious.] 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the 

wall. 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf's 

hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?     I 

said 
"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 


Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  counte- 
nance. 
The    depth    and    passion   of    its    earnest 

glance. 
But  to   myself  they  turned    (since   none 

puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they 

durst,  1 1 

How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not 

the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.    Sir,  'twas 

not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that 

spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantle 

laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush   that   dies   along  her   throat:" 

such  stuff 
Was    courtesy,    she   thought,   and    cause 

enough  20 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.    She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made 

glad. 
Too  easily  impressed:  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  every- 
where. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one!     My   favour  at   her 

breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white 

mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and 

each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving 

speech,  30 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — 

good!  but  thanked 
Somehow — I    know    not   how — as    if    she 

ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With    anybody's    gift.      Who'd    stoop    to 

blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?    Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make 

your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just 

this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set    40 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


87 


Her  wits  to  yours,   forsooth,  and  make 

excuse, 
— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and 

I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no 

doubt. 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed 

without 
Much  the  same  smile?    This  grew;  I  gave 

commands; 
Then  al!  smiles  stopped  together.     There 

she  stands 
As  if  alive.    Will't  please  you  rise?    We'll 

meet 
The  company  below,  then.    I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munifi- 
cence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence   50 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though    his    fair    daughter's    self,    as    I 

avowed 
At  starting,  is  m.y  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 
Together    down,    sir.      Notice    Neptune, 

though. 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity. 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze 

for  me! 

(1842) 


THE   SHEPHERD   OF   KING 
ADMETUS 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

[This  poem  deals  with  a  Greek  legend  of 
Apollo,  god  of  music  and  poetry,  who  was  said 
<o  have  been  condemned  by  Jupiter  to  serve  a 
mortal  for  one  year;  he  became  shepherd  to 
Admetus,  King  of  Thessaly.] 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth. 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth. 

Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  cords,  and  drew 

Music  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 
Fearless,   or   brimmed   their   eyes   with 
dew. 


Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 
Pure  taste  by  right  divine. 

Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine : 


10 


And  so,  well  pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed, 

And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 

In  his  seemed  musical  and  low.  20 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 

They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour. 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall. 

Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use,  30 

For    in    mere    weeds,    and    stones,    and 
springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise. 
But  when  a  glance  they  caught 

Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes. 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for- 
naught. 

Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 

More  full  of  love,  because  of  him.      40 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 

Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 

(1842) 

RHCECUS 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age. 
To  every  clime,  and  every  race  of  men, 
With  revelations  fitted  to  their  growth 
And  shape  of  mind,  nor  gives  the  realm 

of  Truth 
Into  the  selfish  rule  of  one  sole  race : 
Therefore  each  form  of  worship  that  hath 

swayed 
The  life  of  man,  and  given  it  to  grasp 
The  master-key  of  knowledge,  reverence, 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Enfolds  some  germs  of  goodness  and  of 

right ; 
Else    never   had    the    eager    soul,    which 

loathes  lo 

The  slothful  down  of  pampered  ignorance, 

Found  in  it  even  a  moment's  fitful  rest 

Hear    now    this    fairy    legend    of    old 

Greece, 
As  full  of  freedom,  youth,  and  beauty  still 
As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 
Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze. 
A  youth  named  Rhcecus,  wandering  in 

the  wood, 
Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall; 
And,  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree, 
He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring 

care,  20 

And  with  a  thoughtless  footstep  loitered 

on. 
But  as  he  turned  he  heard  a  voice  behind 
That  murmured  "Rhoecus !"     'Twas  as  if 

the  leaves, 
Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  murmured 

it; 

And    while    he    paused,    bewildered,    yet 

again 
It   murmured   "Rhoecus!"   softer   than   a 

breeze. 
He  started,  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a  happy 

dream 
Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a  warm 

glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shadowy 

oak:  30 

It  seemed  a  woman's  shape,  yet  all  too  fair 
To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For   any   that   were   wont   to   mate   with 

gods; 
All  naked  like  a  goddess  stood  she  there, 
And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 
To     feel    the    guilt-born    earthliness    of 

shame . 
"RhcECUs,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree ;" 
Thus  she  began,  dropping  her  low-toned 

words 
Serene  and  full  and  clear  as  drops  of  dew; 
"And  with  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and  die: 
The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers,  41 
Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life. 
Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can 

give. 
And  with  a  thankful  joy  it  shall  be  thine." 
Then  Rhoecus,  with  a  flutter  at  the  heart. 
Yet,    by    the    prompting    of    such    beauty, 

bold. 


Answered :  "What  is  there  that  can  sat- 
isfy 
The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but  love? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 
Which  must  be  evermore  my  spirit's  goal." 
After  a  little  pause  she  said  again,  51 
But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 
"I  give  it,  Rhoecus,  though  a  perilous  gift : 
An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here." 
And    straightway   there   was    nothing   he 

could  see 
But  the  green  glooms  beneath  the  shadowy 

oak. 
And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining 

ears 
But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves 
And,  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope, 
The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe.    60 
Now  in  those  days  of  simpleness  and 

faith 
Men  did  not  think  that  happy  things  were 

dreams 
Because    they    overstepped    the     narrow 

bourne 
Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 
Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beautiful 
To  be  the  guerdon  of  a  daring  heart. 
So  Rhoecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was 

blest ; 
And  all  along  unto  the  city's  gate 
Earth  seemed   to   spring  beneath  him   as 

he  walked. 
The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than  its 

wont,  70 

And  he  could  scarce  believe  he  had  not 

wings, 
Such  sunshine  seemed  to  glitter  through 

his  veins 
Instead   of    blood,   so   light   he   felt   and 

strange. 
Young    Rhoecus    had    a    faithful    heart 

enough. 
But  one   that   in   the  present  dwelt  too 

much, 
And,   taking   with   blithe   welcome   what- 
soe'er 
Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in 

that; 
Like  the  contented  peasant  of  a  vale. 
Deemed   it   the   world   and  never   looked 

beyond. 
So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon        80 
Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the 

dice, 
He  joined  them,  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 
The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


89 


And    Rhoecus,    who    had    met    but    sorry 

luck, 
Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a  happy  throw, 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a 

yellow  bee 
That    buzzed    about   his   ear   with   down- 
dropped  legs 
As  if  to  light.    And  Rhcecus  laughed  and 

said, 
Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was  with 

loss, 
"By  Venus!  does  he  take  me  for  a  rose?" 
And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  impatient 

hand.  91 

But  still  the  bee  came  back,   and  thrice 

again 
Rhoecus   did  beat  him  off  with  growing 

wrath. 
Then     through     the     window     flew     the 

wounded  bee ; 
And    RhcECus,    tracking    him   with    angry 

eyes, 
Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 
Against  the  red  disc  of  the  setting  sun, — 
And   instantly   the   blood    sank    from    his 

heart, 
As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 
Without  a  word  he  turned,  and,  rushing 

forth,  100 

Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate. 
And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the  wood's 

long  shade, 
By  the   low   sun   thrown    forward   broad 

and  dim. 
Darkened  well-nigh  unto  the  city's   wall. 
Quite    spent    and    out    of     breath,    he 

reached  the  tree. 
And,    listening    fearfully,   he   heard    once 

more 
The  low  voice  murmur  "Rhoecus !"  close 

at  hand; 
Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could 

see 
Nought  but  the  deepening  glooms  beneath 

the  oak. 
Then    sighed    the    voice,    "Oh,    Rhoecus, 

nevermore  no 

Shalt  thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or  night! 
Me,   who   would    fain   have   blessed   thee 

with  a  love 
More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 
Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart : 
But    thou    didst    scorn    my    humble    mes- 
senger. 
And  sent'st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised 

wings. 
We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes; 


We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love ; 

And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's 

works 
Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  sh«t  out   from 

all.  120 

Farewell !    for   thou   canst   never   see   me 

more." 
Then     Rhcecus    beat    his    breast,    and 

groaned  aloud. 
And  cried,  "Be  pitiful !  forgive  me  yet 
This    once,    and    I    shall    never    need    it 

more !" 
"Alas !"  the  voice  returned,  "  'tis  thou  art 

blind. 
Not  I  unmerciful:  I  can  forgive. 
But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit's  eyes ; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o'er  itself." 
With  that  again  there  murmured  "Never- 
more!" 129 
And  Rhoecus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except    the    rattling   of    the    oak's    crisp 

leaves. 
Like  the  long  surf  upon  a  distant  shore 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and  down. 
The  night  had  gathered  round  him :  o'er 

the  plain 
The  city  sparkled  with  its  thousand  lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear 
Harshly  and  like  a  curse ;  above,  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars. 
Deepened,  and  on  his  forehead  smote  the 

breeze.  139 

Beauty  was  all  around  him,  and  delight ; 
But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth. 

(1843) 


ABOU   BEN   ADHEM 

LEIGH    HUNT 

Abou    Ben    Adhem    (may    his    tribe    in- 
crease!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of 

peace 
And    saw,    within    the    moonlight    in    his 

room. 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold : 
Exceeding  peace   had   made    Ben   Adhem 

bold. 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"What  writest  thou?"     The  vision  raised 
its  head, 


90  POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

And,  with  a  look  made  of  all   sweet  ac-  The   angel   wrote,   and   vanished.     The 

cord,  next  night 

Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  it    came    again,    with    a    great    wakening 

the  Lord."                                             lo  jjgjj^ 

"^"not'so"^'"^  °"^""  '^'"^   '^''°"'     "^^^'  ^""^   ^^"""^^^   *^^    "^""^^    "^^""^    ^''^^   ""^ 

Replied  the  angel.    Abou  spoke  more  low,  ^      God  had  blessed,— 

But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  And  lo !   Ben  Adhem  s  name  led  all  the 

then,  rest. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his   fellow- 
men."  (1844) 

RIME  OF  THE  DUCHESS  MAY 

ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 

[An  imitation  of  an  old  ballad.  In  the  original  version  Mrs.  Browning  inserts  the  refrain  "Toll 
slowly"  in  the  midst  of  each  stanza,  conceiving  the  verses  to  be  repeated  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
funeral  bell.  The  present  version  is  much  abbreviated,  some  thirty-six  stanzas  being  omitted, 
including   the  first  thirteen.] 

'Twas  a  Duke's  fair  orphan  girl,  and  her  uncle's  ward,  the  Earl, 
Who  betrothed  her,  twelve  years  old,  for  the  sake  of  dowry  gold, 
To  his  son,  Lord  Leigh,  the  churl. 

But  what  time  she  had  made  good  all  her  years  of  womanhood. 
Unto  both  those  lords  of  Leigh  spake  she  out  right  sovranly, 
"My  will  runneth  as  my  blood. 

"And  while  this  same  blood  makes  red  this  same  right  hand's  veins,"  she  said, 
"'Tis  my  will  as  lady  free  not  to  wed  a  lord  of  Leigh, 
But  Sir  Guy  of  Linteged." 

The  old  Earl  he  smiled  smooth,  then  he  sighed  for  wilful  youth —  lo 

"Good  my  niece,  that  hand  withal  looketh  somewhat  soft  and  small 
For  so  large  a  will,  in  sooth." 

She,  too,  smiled  by  that  same  sign,  but  her  smile  was  cold  and  fine, — 
"Little  hand  clasps  muckle  gold,  or  it  were  not  worth  the  hold 
Of  thy  son,  good  uncle  mine!" 

Then  the  young  lord  jerked  his  breath,  and  sware  thickly  in  his  teeth. 
He  would  wed  his  own  betrothed,  and^  she  loved  him  and  she  loathed. 
Let  the  life  come  or  the  death. 

Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as  her  father's  child  might  rise,— 
"Thy  hound's  blood,  my  lord  of  Leigh,  stains  thy  knightly  heel,"  quoth  she,        20 
"And  he  moans  not  where  he  lies. 

"But  a  woman's  will  dies  hard,  in  the  hall  or  on  the  sward ! 
By  that  grave,  my  lords,  which  made  me  orphaned  girl  and  dowered  lady, 
I  deny  you  wife  and  ward." 

Unto  each  she  bowed  her  head,  and  swept  past  with  lofty  tread. 
Ere  the  midnight  bell  had  ceased,  in  the  chapel  had  the  priest 
Blessed  her,  bride  of  Linteged. 

I  and  .  .  .  and.     Whether  ...  or. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  91 

Fast  and  fain  the  bridal  train  along  the  night-storm  rode  amain. 
Hard  the  steeds  of  lord  and  serf  struck  their  hoofs  out  on  the  turf, 

In  the  pauses  of  the  rain.  30 

Fast  and  fain  the  kinsmen's  train  along  the  storm  pursued  amain, 
Steed  on  steed-track,  dashing  off, — thickening,  doubling,  hoof  on  hoof, 
In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

And  the  bridegroom  led  the  flight  on  his  red-roan  steed  of  might. 
And  the  bride  lay  on  his  arm,  still,  as  if  she  feared  no  harm. 
Smiling  out  into  the  night. 

Up  the  mountain  wheeled  the  steed, — girth  to  ground,  and  fetlocks  spread, — 
Headlong  bounds,  and  rocking  flanks, — down  he  staggered,  to  the  banks, 
To  the  towers  of  Linteged. 

On  the  steed  she  dropt  her  cheek,  kissed  his  mane  and  kissed  his  neck —  40 

"I  had  happier  die  by  thee,  than  live  on  a  Lady  Leigh," 
Were  the  first  words  she  did  speak. 

But  a  three  months'  joyaunce  lay  'twixt  that  moment  and  to-day, 
When  five  hundred  archers  tall  stand  beside  the  castle  wall. 
To  recapture  Duchess  May. 

And  the  castle  standeth  black,  with  the  red  sun  at  its  back, 
And  a  fortnight's  siege  is  done,  and,  except  the  Duchess,  none 
Can  misdoubt  the  coming  wrack.i 

Then  the  captain,  young  Lord  Leigh,  with  his  eyes  so  grey  of  blee,2 
And  thin  lips  that  scarcely  sheath  the  cold  white  gnashing  teeth,  50 

Gnashed  in  smiling,  absently. 

Cried  aloud,  "So  goes  the  day,  bridegroom  fair  of  Duchess  May! 
Look  thy  last  upon  the  sun!  if  thou  seest  to-morrow's  one, 
'Twill  be  through  a  foot  of  clay. 

"Peck  on  blindly,  netted  dove!     If  a  wife's  name  thee  behoove, 
Thou  shalt  wear  the  same  to-morrow,  ere  the  grave  has  hid  the  sorrow 
Of  thy  last  ill-mated  love. 

"O'er  his  fixed  and  silent  mouth  thou  and  I  will  call  back  troth. 
He  shall  altar  be,  and  priest, — and  he  will  not  cry,  at  least, 

T  forbid  you — I  am  loth!'  60 

"I  will  wring  thy  fingers  pale  in  the  gauntlet  of  my  mail. 
'Little  hand  and  muckle  gold'  close  shall  lie  within  my  hold. 
As  the  sword  did,  to  prevail." 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west. 
Oh,  and  laughed  the  Duchess  May,  and  her  soul  did  put  away 
All  his  boasting  for  a  jest. 

In  her  chamber  did  she  sit,  laughing  low  to  think  of  it, — 
"Tower  is  strong  and  will  is  free, — thou  canst  boast,  my  Lord  of  Leigh, 
But  thou  boastest  little  wit." 

I  wrack.    Destruction.  2  blee.    Hue. 


92  POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west;  70 

On  the  tower  the  castle's  lord  leant  in  silence  on  his  sword, 
With  an  anguish  in  his  breast. 

With  a  spirit-laden  weight  did  he  lean  down  passionate;— 
They  have  almost  sapped^  the  wall, — they  will  enter  therewithal, 
With  no  knocking  at  the  gate. 

Then  the  sword  he  leant  upon  shivered,  snapped  upon  the  stone; — 
"Sword,"  he  thought,  with  inward  laugh,  "ill  thou  servest  for  a  staff, 
When  thy  nobler  use  is  done! 

"Sword,  thy  nobler  use  is  done!    Tower  is  lost,  and  shame  begun! 
If  we  met  them  in  the  breach,  hilt  to  hilt  or  speech  to  speech,  80 

We  should  die  there,  each  for  one. 

"If  we  met  them  at  the  wall,  we  should  singly,  vainly  fall. 
But  if  I  die  here  alone,  then  I  die,  who  am  but  one. 
And  die  nobly  for  them  all. 

"Five  true  friends  lie,  for  my  sake,  in  the  moat  and  in  the  brake  ;2 
Thirteen  warriors  lie  at  rest,  with  a  black  wound  in  the  breast. 
And  not  one  of  these  will  wake. 

"So  no  more  of  this  shall  be!  heart-blood  weighs  too  heavily, 
And  I  could  not  sleep  in  grave,  with  the  faithful  and  the  brave 

Heaped  around  and  over  me.  po 

"These  shall  never  die  for  me, — life-blood  falls  too  heavily; 
And  if  I  die  here  apart,  o'er  my  dead  and  silent  heart 
They  shall  pass  out  safe  and  free. 

"When  the  foe  hath  heard  it  said,  'Death  holds  Guy  of  Linteged,* 
That  new  corse  new  peace  shall  bring,  and  a  blessed  blessed  thing 
Shall  the  stone  be  at  its  head. 

"Then  my  friends  shall  pass  out  free,  and  shall  bear  my  memory; 
Then  my  foes  shall  sleek^  their  pride,  soothing  fair  my  widowed  bride. 
Whose  sole  sin  was  love  of  me. 

"She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears,  she  will  pray  her  woman's  prayer,  100 

But  her  heart  is  young  in  pain,  and  her  hopes  will  spring  again 
By  the  suntime  of  her  years." 

All  these  silent  thoughts  did  swim  o'er  his  eyes  grown  strange  and  dim, 
Till  his  true  men  in  the  place  wished  they  stood  there  face  to  face 
With  the  foe  instead  of  him. 

"One  last  oath,  my  friends  that  were  faithful  hearts  to  do  and  dare! 
Tower  must  fall,  and  bride  be  lost!  swear  me  service  worth  the  cost!" 
Bold  they  stood  around  to  swear, 

"Each  man  clasp  my  hand  and  swear,  by  the  deed  we  failed  in  there; 
Not  for  vengeance,  not  for  right,  will  ye  strike  one  blow  to-night  I"  no 

Pale  they  stood  around  to  swear. 

I  Sapped.     Dug  under.  2  brake.     Brush,  thicket.  3  sleek.     Soothe,  calm. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  93 

"One  last  boon,  young  Ralph  and  Clare!  faithful  hearts  to  do  and  dare! 
Bring  that  steed  up  from  his  stall,  which  she  kissed  before  you  all! 
Guide  him  up  the  turret-stair. 

"Ye  shall  harness  him  aright,  and  lead  upward  to  this  height, 
Once  in  love,  and  twice  in  war,  hath  he  borne  me  strong  and  fair; 
He  shall  bear  me  far  to-night." 

Then  his  men  looked  to  and  fro,  when  they  heard  him  speaking  so. 
'"Las!  the  noble  heart,"  they  thought;  "he  in  sooth  is  grief-distraught. 

Would  we  stood  here  with  the  foe !"  120 

But  a  fire  flashed  from  his  eye,  'twixt  their  thought  and  their  reply: 
"Have  ye  so  much  time  to  waste?    We  who  ride  here  must  ride  fast. 
As  we  wish  our  foes  to  fly." 

They  have  fetched  the  steed  with  care,  in  the  harness  he  did  wear. 
Past  the  court,  and  through  the  doors,  across  the  rushes  of  the  floors, 
But  they  goad  him  up  the  stair. 

Then  from  out  her  bower  chambered  did  the  Duchess  May  repair. 
"Tell  me  now  what  is  your  need,"  said  the  lady,  "of  this  steed, 
That  ye  goad  him  up  the  stair?" 

"Get  thee  back,  sweet  Duchess  May !    Hope  is  gone  like  yesterday ;  130 

One-half  hour  completes  the  breach;  and  thy  lord  grows  wild  of  speech! 
Get  thee  in,  sweet  lady,  and  pray. 

"In  the  east  tower,  highest  of  all,  loud  he  cries  for  steed  from  stall. 
He  would  ride  as  far,  quoth  he,  as  for  love  and  victory, 
Though  he  rides  the  castle  wall." 

She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a  pale  yet  steady  face, 
Like  a  statue  thunderstruck,  which,  though  quivering,  seems  to  look 
Right  against  the  thunder-place. 

And  her  foot  trod  in,  with  pride,  her  own  tears  i'  the  stone  beside, — 
"Go  to,  faithful  friends,  go  to  ! — judge  no  more  what  ladies  do, —  140 

No,  nor  how  their  lords  may  ride!" 

Then  the  good  steed's  rein  she  took,  and  his  neck  did  kiss  and  stroke; 
Soft  he  neighed  to  answer  her,  and  then  followed  up  the  stair, 
For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look. 

Oh,  and  steeply,  steeply  wound  up  the  narrow  stair  around! 
Oh,  and  closely,  closely  speeding,  step  by  step  beside  her  treading. 
Did  he  follow,  meek  as  hound. 

On  the  east  tower,  highest  of  all — there,  where  never  a  hoof  did  fall — 
Out  they  swept  a  vision  steady,  noble  steed  and  lovely  lady. 

Calm  as  if  in  bower  or  stall.  ISO 

Down  she  knelt  at  her  lord's  knee,  and  she  looked  up  silently. 
And  he  kissed  her  twice  and  thrice,  for  that  look  within  her  eyes 
Which  he  could  not  bear  to  see, 

I  chambere.    Pronounce  "shom-bare." 


94  POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

Quoth  he,  "Get  thee  from  this  strife— and  the  sweet  saints  bless  thy  Hfe! 
In  this  hour  I  stand  in  need  of  my  noble  red-roan  steed, 
But  no  more  of  noble  wife." 

Quoth  she,  "Meekly  have  I  done  all  thy  biddings  under  sun; 
But  by  all  my  womanhood,  which  is  proved,  so  true  and  good, 
I  will  never  do  this  one. 

"So  the  sweet  saints  be  with  me,"  did  she  utter  solemnly,  l6o 

"If  a  man,  this  eventide,  on  this  castle  wall  will  ride. 
He  shall  ride  the  same  with  me." 

Oh,  he  sprang  up  in  the  selle,^  and  he  laughed  out  bitter-well: 
"Wouldst  thou  ride  among  the  leaves,  as  we  used  on  other  eves. 
To  hear  chime  a  vesper  bell?" 

She  clung  closer  to  his  knee:  "Ay,  beneath  the  cypress-tree! 
Mock  me  not,  for  otherwhere  than  along  the  greenwood  fair 
Have  I  ridden  fast  with  thee. 

"Fast  I  rode  with  new-made  vows,  from  my  angry  kinsman's  house; 
What,  and  would  you  men  should  reck^  that  I  dared  more  for  love's  sake  170 

As  a  bride  than  as  a  spouse? 

"What,  and  would  you  it  shall  fall,  as  a  proverb,  before  all. 
That  a  bride  may  keep  your  side  while  through  castle-gate  you  ride, 
Yet  eschew^  the  castle  wall?" 

Ho?  the  breach  yawns  into  ruin,  and  roars  up  against  her  suing;* 
With  the  inarticulate  din,  and  the  dreadful  falling  in, — 
Shrieks  of  doing  and  undoing! 

Evermore  the  foemen  pour  through  the  crash  of  window  and  door. 

And  the  shouts  of  "Leigh  and  Leigh,"  and  the  shrieks  of  "Kill"  and  "Flee" 

Strike  up  clear  amid  the  roar.  180 

Thrice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain,  but  they  closed  and  closed  again; 
Wild  she  clung,  as  one,  withstood,  clasps  a  Christ  upon  the  rood,^ 
In  a  spasm  of  deathly  pain. 

Back  he  reined  his  steed,  back-thrown  on  the  slippery  coping-stone; 
Back  the  iron  hoofs  did  grind  on  the  battlement  behind. 
Whence  a  hundred  feet  went  down. 

And  his  heel  did  press  and  goad  on  the  quivering  flank  bestrode, — 
"Friends  and  brothers,  save  my  wife!     Pardon,  sweet,  in  change  for  life, — 
But  I  ride  alone  to  God!" 

Straight  as  if  the  Holy  Name  had  upbreathed  her  like  a  flame,  I90 

She  upsprang,  she  rose  upright — in  his  selle  she  sate  in  sight; 
By  her  love  she  overcame. 

And  her  head  was  on  his  breast,  where  she  smiled  as  one  at  rest. 
"Ring!"  she  cried,  "O  vesper  bell,  in  the  beechwood's  old  chapelle! 
But  the  passing-bell"  rings  best." 

I  sflle.     Saddle.  2  reck.     Think.  3  eschew.     Avoid. 

4  suing.     Besccchini;.  S  rood.     CruciAx.  6  passing-bell.     Bell  tolled  fur  a  death. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  95 

They  have  caught  out  at  the  rein,  which  Sir  Guy  threw  loose — in  vain — 
For  the  horse  in  stark  despair,  with  his  front  hoofs  poised  in  air, 
On  the  last  verge  rears  amain. 

Now  he  hangs — he  rocks  between,  and  his  nostrils  curdle  in! 
Now  he  shivers  head  and  hoof,  and  the  flakes  of  foam  fall  off,  300 

And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin! 

And  a  look  of  human  woe  from  his  staring  eyes  did  go. 
And  a  sharp  cry  uttered  he,  in  a  foretold  agojiy 
Of  the  headlong  death  below, — 

And  "Ring,  ring,  thou  passing-bell!"  still  she  cried,  "i'  the  old  chapelle!" 
Then,  back  toppling,  crashing  back,  a  dead  weight  fiung  out  to  wrack. 
Horse  and  riders  overfell. 


Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west, 

And  I  read  this  ancient  rime  in  the  churchyard,  while  the  chime 

Slowly  tolled  for  one  at  rest.  210 

The  abeles^  moved  in  the  sun,  and  the  river  smooth  did  run, 
And  the  ancient  rime  rang  strange,  with  its  passion  and  its  change, 
Here,  where  all  done  lay  undone. 

Then,  O  spirits,  did  I  say,  ye  who  rode  so  fast  that  day, 
Did  star-wheels  and  angel  wings,  with  their  holy  winnowings. 
Keep  beside  you  all  the  way? 

Beating  -heart  and  burning  brow,  ye  are  very  patient  now. 
And  the  children  might  be  bold  to  pluck  the  king-cups  from  your  mould 
Ere  a  month  had  let  them  grow. 

In  your  patience  ye  are  strong;  cold  and  heat  ye  take  not  wrong;  220 

When  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  blows  Eternity's  evangel, 
Time  will  seem  to  you  not  long. 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west. 
And  I  said  in  underbreath — All  our  life  is  mixed  with  death. 
And  who  knoweth  which  is  best? 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west. 
And  I  smiled  to  think  God's  greatness  flowed  around  our  incompleteness, 
Round  our  restlessness  His  rest. 

(1844) 

I  abelcs.     White  poplar& 


96 


POEMS    OF   THE    ENGLISH    RACE 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[There  is  no  definite  historical  basis  for  this 
poem:  we  recognize  the  scene  as  the  Netherlands, 
and  the  time  as  the  early  part  of  the  17th  cen- 
tury, when  the  Low  Countries  were  at  war  with 
Spain.  The  towns  mentioned  by  Browning  can 
be  found  on  modern  maps,  showing  the  route  of 
the  riders  eastward  from  Ghent  to  Aix, — the  lat- 
ter over  the  Belgian  border  in  Germany.] 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 
I  galloped,   Dirck  galloped,   we  galloped 

all  three ; 
"Good   speed !"   cried   the   watch,   as   the 

gate-bolts  undrew; 
"Speed I"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping 

through ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to 

rest. 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the 

great  pace 
Neck    by    neck,    stride    by    stride,    never 

changing  our  place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths 

tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the 

pique^  right,  lO 

Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker 

the  bit. 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we 

drew  near 
Lokeren,    the    cocks    crew    and    twilight 

dawned  clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to 

see; 
At    Duffeld,    'twas   morning   as   plain    as 

could  be; 
And    from     Mecheln    church-steeple    we 

heard  the  half-chime. 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is 

time !" 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the 

sun. 
And  against   him  the   cattle   stood   black 

every  one,  20 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping 

past. 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at 

last, 
I  pique.     Pommel. 


With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its 
spray : 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp 
ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out 
on  his  track; 

And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that 
glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  mas- 
ter, askance ! 

And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which 
aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping 
on.  30 

By    Hasselt,    Dirck    groaned;    and    cried 

Joris,  "Stay,  spur! 
Your   Roos   galloped  bravely,  the    fault's 

not  in  her. 
We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard 

the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and 

staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the 

flank. 
As  down  on  her  haunchas  she  shuddered 

and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in 

the  sky; 
The  broad   sun   above  laughed  a  pitiless 

laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright 

stubble  like  chaff;  40 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang 

white. 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in 

sight !" 

"How  they'll  greet  us !" — and  all  in  a  mo- 
ment his  roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a 
stone ; 

And  there  was  my*  Roland  to  bear  the 
whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix 
from  her  fate. 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to 
the  brim. 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sock- 
ets' rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff  coat,  each  hol- 
ster let  fall. 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt 
and  all,  50 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


97 


Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his 

car, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse 

without  peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any 

noise,  bad  or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped 

and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking 
round 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on 
the  ground; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Ro- 
land of  mine. 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last 
measure  of  wine. 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common 
consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought 
good  news  from  Ghent.  60 

(1845) 


THE  BOY   AND  THE  ANGEL 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Morning,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
"Praise  God !"  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  laboured,  long  and  well ; 
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell. 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "Praise  God !" 

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw, 
And  cheerful  turned  to  work  anew. 


10 


Said    Blaise,    the   listening   monk,    "Well 

done; 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son, 

"As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day 

Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way. 

"This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome." 

Said  Theocrite,  "Would  God  that  I 
Might  praise  him  that  great  way,  and  die  !" 


Night  passed,  day  shone, 

And  Theocrite  was  gone.  20 

With  God  a  day  endures  alway, 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day. 

God  said  in  heaven,  "Nor  day  nor  night 
Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  delight." 

Then  Gabriel,  like  a  rainbow's  birth, 
Spread  his  wings  and  sank  to  earth; 

Entered,  in  flesh,  the  empty  cell. 
Lived    there,   and   played    the    craftsman 
well; 

And  morning,  evening,  noon  and  night. 
Praised  God  in  place  of  Theocrite.  30 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew : 
The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue : 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay: 

And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent, 
And  ever  lived  on  earth  content. 

(He  did  God's  will;  to  him,  all  one 
H  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said  "A  praise  is  in  mine  ear; 
There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear :  40 

"So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so 

New  worlds  that  from  my  footstool  go. 

"Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways : 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise." 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off  fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell. 

'Twas  Easter  Day :  he  flew  to  Rome, 
And  paused  above  St.  Peter's  dome. 


In  the  tiring-room  close  by 
The  great  outer  gallery, 

With  his  holy  vestments  dight,* 
Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite : 

And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear, 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade. 
Till  oh  his  life  the  sickness  weighed; 

I  dight.     Clad. 


SO 


98 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near, 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer: 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear, 

He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here.    60 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned, 
And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 

"I  bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman's  cell, 
And  set  thee  here;  I  did  not  well. 

"Vainly  I  left  my  angel-sphere. 
Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year. 

"Thy    voice's    praise    seemed    weak;    it 

dropped — 
Creation's  chorus  stopped ! 


"Go  back  and  praise  again 
The  early  way,  while  I  remain. 

"With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain, 
Take  up  creation's  pausing  strain, 

"Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ : 
Resume  the  craftsman  and  the  boy !" 

Theocrite  grew  old  at  home; 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  dome. 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died: 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 

(1845) 


70 


Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect —  20 

(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well."  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire,  30 

Perched  him!"     The  chief's  eye  flashed; 
his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes; 
"You're  wounded !"    "Nay,"  the  soldier's 
pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"I'm  killed,  Sire!"    And,  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead.  40 

(184s) 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[Ratisbon  is  the  German  Regensburg,  m  Ba- 
varia; Napoleon  stormed  it  in  1809,  during  an 
invasion  of  Austria.  Lannes  was  one  of  his 
most  trusted  marshals.] 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  his  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "My  plans 
That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall,  10 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 
Waver  at  yonder  wall," — 


THE  ITALIAN    IN   ENGLAND 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[The  speaker  is  an  Italian  patriot  who  has 
been  a  leader  in  one  or  more  of  the  uprisings 
against  Austrian  rule,  such  as  took  place  m  1821, 
1831,  and  1848.] 

That  second  time  they  hunted  me 
From  hill  to  plain,  from  shore  to  sea, 
And  Austria,  hounding  far  and  wide 
Her   bloodhounds    through    the    country- 
side. 
Breathed  hot  and  instant  ^  on  my  trace, — 
I  made  six  days  a  hiding-place 
Of  that  dry  green  old  aqueduct 
Where  I  and  Charles,  when  boys,  have 

plucked 
The  fire-flies  from  the  roof  above, 
Bright   creeping   through   the   moss   they 
love :  10 

I  imtanl.     Close.  . 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


99 


— How  long  it  seems  since  Charles  was 

lost! 
Six  days  the  soldiers  crossed  and  crossed 
The  country  in  my  very  sight ; 
And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 
The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay 
With  signal  fires;  well,  there  I  lay 
Close  covered  o'er  in  my  recess, 
Up  to  the  neck  in  ferns  and  cress. 
Thinking  on  Metternichi  our  friend, 
And  Charles's  miserable  end,  20 

And  much  beside,  two  days ;  the  third. 
Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 
The  peasants  from  the  village  go 
To  work  among  the  maize ;  you  know. 
With  us  in  Lombardy,  they  bring 
Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string 
With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 
And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 
To  keep  the  sun's  heat  from  the  wine ; 
These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line,  30 

And,  close  on  them,  dear  noisy  crew. 
The  peasants  from  the  village,  too; 
For  at  the  very  rear  would  troop 
Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 
To  help,  I  knew.    When  these  had  passed, 
I  threw 'my  glove  to  strike  the  last, 
Taking  the  chance;  she  did  not  start. 
Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart, 
One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round. 
And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground ;   40 
A  wild  bush  grows  and  hides  my  crypt ; 
She  picked  my  glove  up  while  she  stripped 
A  branch  of?,  then  rejoined  the  rest 
With  that ;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast. 
Then  I  drew  breath:  they  disappeared: 
It  was   for  Italy  I   feared. 

An  hour,  and  she  returned  alone 
Exactly  where  my  glove  was  thrown. 
Meanwhile  came  many  thoughts;  on  me 
Rested  the  hopes  of  Italy;  50 

I  had  devised  a  certain  tale 
Which,    when  'twas  told   her,   could  not 

fail 
Persuade  a  peasant  of  its  truth; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay, 
And  no  temptation  to  betray. 
But  when  I  saw  that  woman's  face, 
Its  calm  simplicity  of  grace, 
Our  Italy's  own  attitude 
In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and  stood, 
Planting  each  naked  foot  so  firm,  61 

To  crush  the  snake  and  spare  the  worm — 
At  first  sight  of  her  eyes,  I  said, 
"I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 

I  ifeiterHirh.     The  Austrian  prime  minister. 


They  fix  the  price,  because  I  hate 

The  Austrians  over  us :  the  State 

Will  give  you  gold — oh,  gold  so  muchl — 

If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch. 

And  be  your  death,   for  aught  I  know. 

If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe.     70 

Now,  you  must  bring  me  food  and  drink, 

And  also  paper,  pen  and  ink, 

And  carry  safe  what  I  shall  write 

To  Padua,  which  you'll  reach  at  night 

Before  the  duomo^  shuts ;  go  in, 

And  wait  till  Tenebrae^  begin; 

Walk  to  the  third  confessional. 

Between  the  pillar  and  the  wall. 

And    kneeling    whisper,    Whence    comes 

peace? 
Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease;  80 

And  if  the  voice  inside  returns. 
From  Christ  and  Freedom;  what  concerns 
The  cause  of  Peace  F — for  answer,  slip 
My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip ; 
Then  come  back  happy  we  have  done 
Our  mother  service — I,  the  son. 
As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land!" 

Three    mornings    more,    she    took   her 
stand 
In  the  same  place,  with  the  same  eyes : 
I  was  no  surer  of  sunrise  90 

Than  of  her  coming.     We  conferred 
Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 
She  had  a  lover — stout  and  tall. 
She  said — then  let  her  eyelids  fall,  __ 

"He  could  do  much" — as  if  some  doubt 
Entered  her  heart, — then,  passing  out, 
"She  could  not  speak  for  others,  who 
Had  other  thoughts;  herself  she  knew:" 
And  so  she  brought  me  drink  and  food. 
After  four  days,  the  scouts  pursued      100 
Another  path;  at  last  arrived 
The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 
To  furnish  me :  she  brought  the  news. 
For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 
But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own 
Upon  her  head — "This  faith  was  shown 
To  Italy,  our  mother;  she 
Uses  my  hand  and  blesses  thee." 
She  followed  down  to  the  sea-shore; 
I  left  and  never  saw  her  more.  no 

How  very  long  since  I  have  thought 
Concerning — much  less  wished  for — aught 
Beside  the  good  of  Italy, 
For  which  I  live  and  mean  to  die! 

2  duomo.     Cathedral. 

J   Tenebrd.     A  Holy  Week  service. 


100 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


I  never  was  in  love ;  and  since 

Charles  proved  false,  what  shall  now  con- 
vince 

My  inmost  heart  I  have  a  friend  ? 

However,  if  I  pleased  to  spend 

Real  wishes  on  myself — say,  three — 

I  know  at  least  what  one  should  be.      120 

I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 

I  felt  his  red  wet  throat  distil 

In  blood  through  these  two  hands.  And 
next 

— Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed — 

Charles,  perjured  traitor,   for  his   part, 

Should  die  slow  of  a  broken  heart 

Under  his  new  employers.    Last 

— Ah,  there,  what  should  I  wish?  For 
fast 

Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 

If  I  resolved  to  seek  at  length  130 

My  father's  house  again,  how  scared 

They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared ! 

My  brothers  live  in  Austria's  pay 

— Disowned  me  long  ago,  men  say; 

And  all  my  early  mates  who  used 

To  praise  me  so — perhaps  induced 

More  than  one  early  step  of  mine — 

Are  turning  wise:  while  some  opine  (1845) 


"Freedom  grows  license,"  some  suspect 
"Haste  breeds  delay,"  and  recollect       140 
They  always  said  such  premature 
Beginnings  never  could  endure ! 
So,  with  a  sullen  "All's  for  best," 
The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 
I  think  then,  I  should  wish  to  stand 
This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land. 
Over  the  sea  the  thousand  miles, 
And  know  if  yet  that  woman  smiles 
With  the  calm  smile;  some  little  farm 
She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt :  what  harm 
If  I  sat  on  the  door-side  bench,  151 

And,  while  her  spindle  made  a  trench 
Fantastically  in  the  dust, 
Inquired  of  all  her  fortunes— just 
Her  children's  ages  and  their  names, 
And  what  may  be  the  husband's  aims 
For  each  of  them,    I'd  talk  this  out, 
And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 
Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and  lay 
Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way.      160 

So  much  for  idle  wishing — ^how 
It  steals  the  time !    To  business  now. 


THE   RAVEN 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Once  upon  a  midnight  drearjr,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 
Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore, 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger:  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  vou" — here  I  opened  wide  the  door- 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 


10 


20 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  101 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  tok«n. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word  "Lenorc!" 
This  r  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word  "Lenore!" 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more.  30 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"Surely,"  said  I,  "surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore, — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore — 
'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he,  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed  he, 
But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady  perched  above  my  chamber  door —  40 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then,  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven. 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly  shore: 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night's  Plutonian  shore!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy  bore;  50 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door — 
With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered; 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "Other  friends  have  flown  before; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore."  60 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore. 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  'Never — nevermore.'" 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore,  70 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 


102         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

Thus  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no   syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er. 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor.  80 

"Wretch!"!  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee, — by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee, 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe^  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil,  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore. 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 

On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore, 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead?^ — tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore."  90 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  thing  of  evil,  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore— 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn,* 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore— 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"  I  shrieked,  up-starting; 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken! — Quit  the  bust  above  my  door!  lOO 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door!" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 

(1845) 

1  He  addresses  himself. 

3  nepenthe.     A  magic  drink  supposed  to  induce  forgetfulness. 

3  Cf.  Jetemiah  8:  2j:    "Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead?  is  there  no  physician  there?" 

4  .\idcnn.     Edca. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


103 


IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMNON 

WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 

[An  incident  in  the  story  of  the  Trojan  War. 
After  gathering  at  Aulis  for  the  expedition 
against  Troy,  the  Greek  fleet  was  becalmed. 
Calchas  the  prophet  announced  that  Agamemnon 
had  offended  the  goddess  Artemis,  and  could  only 
win  her  favor  and  the  desired  winds  for  the 
fleet  by  the  sacrifice  of  whatever  was  dearest  to 
him.  This  was  finally  determined  to  be  his 
daughter  Iphigeneia.] 

Iphigeneia,  when  she  heard  her  doom 
At  Auh's,  and  when  all  beside  the  King 
Had  gone  away,  took  his  right  hand,  and 

said, 
"O  father!  I  am  young  and  very  happy. 
I  do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard 
Distinctly  what  the  Goddess  spake.    Old- 
age 
Obscures  the  senses.     If  my  nurse,  who 

knew 
My  voice  so  well,  .sometimes  misunder- 
stood 
While  I  was  resting  on  her  knee  both 

arms 
And    hitting   it   to    make    her    mind    my 

words,  10 

And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in  mine, 
Might  he  not  also  hear  one  word  amiss. 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olym- 
pus?" 
The    father   placed    his   cheek  upon   her 

head. 
And  tears  dropped  down  it,  but  the  king 

of  men 
Replied  not.    Then  the  maiden  spake  once 

more. 
"O  father!  sayst  thou  nothing?     Hear'st 

thou  not 
Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour, 
Listened  to  fondly,  and  awakened  me 
To  hear  my  voice  amid  the  voice  of  birds. 
When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs,        21 
And   the    down    deadened    it    within   the 

nest?" 
He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  silent  still, 
And  this,   and   this   alone,   brought  tears 

from  her, 
Although  she  saw  fate  nearer :  then  with 

sighs, 
"I  thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair  ^ 

before 

X  A  form  of  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  maidens. 


Benignant  Artemis,  and  not  have  dimmed 
Her  polished  altar  with  my  virgin  blood; 
I  thought  to  have  selected  the  white  flow- 
ers 
To  please  the  Nymphs,  and  to  have  asked 

of  each  30 

By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowful  regret, 
Whether,  since  both  my  parents  willed  the 

change, 
I  might  at  Hymen's  feet  bend  my  clipped 

brow  ;2 
And   (after  those  who  mind  us  girls  the 

most) 
Adore  our  own  Athena,  that  she  would 
Regard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes, 
But  father !  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 
Your  love,  O  father!  go  ere  I  am  gone. . ." 
Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her 

back. 
Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers,    40 
And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved  and 

burst. 
He  turned  away ;  not  far,  but  silent  still. 
She  now  first  shuddered ;   for  in  him,  so 

nigh. 
So  long  a  silence  seemed  the  approach  of 

death. 
And  like  it.     Once  again  she  raised  her 

voice. 
"O  father!  if  the  ships  are  now  detained. 
And   all   your   vows    move   not   the  gods 

above, 
When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  be 

one  prayer 
The  less  to  them :  and  purer  can  there  be 
Any,  or  more  fervent  than  the  daughter's 

prayer  50 

For  her  dear  father's  safety  and  success?" 
A  groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his  re- 
solve. 
An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 
One  word,  stepped  slowly  on,  and  took  the 

wrist 
Of  the  pale  maiden.     She  looked  up  and 

saw 
The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm  cold  eyes. 
Then  turned  she  where  her  parent  stood, 

and  cried 
"O  father !  grieve  no  more :  the  ships  can 

sail." 

(1846) 

3  That  is,  whether  I  might  marry. 


104 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


SIR  HUMPHREY   GILBERT 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

[After  planting  the  first  English  colony  in 
North  America  at  St.  John's,  Newfoundland,  on 
August  5,  1583,  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  found  it 
necessary  to  return  to  England.  He  sailed  with 
two  ships, — The  Golden  Hind  and  The  Squirrel, 
and  was  lost  with  the  latter  vessel  north  of  the 
Azores,  about  September  9,  1583.  The  Golden 
Hind  returned  to  England  safely;  its  report  is 
the  basis  of  Longfellow's  version  of  Sir  Hum- 
phrey's last  known  words.  Longfellow  supposes 
Campobello,  on  the  New  Brunswick  coast,  to 
have  been  the  starting-point  for  the  voyage.] 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 

Sailed  the  corsair  Death; 
Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glisten  in  the  sun; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 


His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas!  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night; 

And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 
The  Book  was  in  his  hand ; 

"Do  not  fear!     Heaven  is  as  near," 
He  said,  "by  water  as  by  land!" 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold ! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock; 
Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 


10 


20 


30 


Southward  through  day  and  dark. 

They  drift  in  close  embrace. 
With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main; 

Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place.   40 

Southward,  forever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf  Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 

(1849) 


THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

[This  poem  is  based  on  a  legend,  found  in 
many  places  and  various  forms,  and  particularly 
in  an  old  Danish  ballad,  of  a  maiden  who  was 
wooed  and  won  by  a  merman,  but  later,  stricken 
by  conscience  and  homesickness,  returned  to 
land.  The  merman  is  supposed  to  be  speaking 
to  his  children,  after  a  fruitless  visit  to  the 
town.] 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 
Down  and  away  below ! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay. 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play. 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray, 
Children,  dear,  let  us  away! 
This  way,  this  way! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go —  10 

Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know: 

"Margaret !     Margaret !" 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear; 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain — 

Surely  she  will  come  again! 

Call  her  once  and  come  away ; 

This  way,  this  way! 

"Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay !  20 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret!  Margaret! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down; 
Call  no  more ! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town. 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy 

shore, 
Then  come  downl 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day; 
Come  away,  come  away! 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


105 


Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  30 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay? 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell. 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep. 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam. 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round,  40 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by. 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye? 
When  did  music  come  this  way? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away?      50 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the 

sea, 
And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended 

it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off 

bell. 
She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear 

green  sea; 
She  said :   "I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk 

pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to- 
day. 
'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world — ah  me ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman !  here 

with  thee."  60 

I  said:  "Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the 

waves ; 
Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind 

sea-caves !" 
She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf 

in  the  bay. 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone? 
"The   sea  grows  stormy,   the   little  ones 

moan ; 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "in  the  world  they 

say; 
Come !"  I  said :  and  we  rose  through  the 

surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white- 

wall'd  town;  70 


Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,  where 

all  was  still. 
To  the  little   gray  church  on   the    windy 

hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk 

at  their  prayers. 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing 

airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones 

worn  with  rains. 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the 

small  leaded  panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar ;  we  saw  her  clear : 
"Margaret,  hist!  come  quick,  we  are  herel 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "we  are  long  alone ; 
The    sea   grows    stormy,    the    little   ones 

moan."  80 

But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look, 
For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book ! 
Loud  prays   the  priest;   shut   stands   the 

door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more ! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more! 

Down,  down,  down! 
Down  to  the  depths  of  the  seal 
She   sits   at   her   wheel   in  the  humming 

town. 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings :  "O  joy,  O  joy,      90 
For  the   humming   street,   and   the  child 

with  its  toy ! 
For  the  priest  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy 

well; 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun!" 
And  so  she  sings  her   fill. 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand. 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks   at 

the  sand. 
And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea;  100 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare; 
And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 
And  anon  there  drops  a  tear. 
From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 
And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 
A  long,  long  sigh ; 
For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mer- 

maiden 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children ; 
Come  children,  come  down  I  1 10 

The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 


106 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


She  will  start  from  her  slumber 

When  gusts  shake  the  door; 

She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 

Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 

We  shall  see,  while  above  us 

The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 

A  ceiling  of  amber, 

A  pavement  of  pearl;  120 

Singing:  "Here  came  a  mortal, 

But  faithless  was  she! 

And  alone  dwell  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 

When  soft  the  winds  blow. 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight. 

When  spring  tides  are  low ; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 

From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom,  130 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 

On  the  blanch'd  sands  a  gloom; 

Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches. 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie, 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand  ffills, 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town ; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill-side — 

And  then  come  back  down,  140 

Singing :  "There  dwells  a  loved  one, 

But  cruel  is  she ! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

(1849) 

SOHRAB    AND    RUSTUM 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

[The  story  of  this  poem  is  from  the  great 
Persian  epic,  or  "Book  of  Kings,"  the  Shah- 
namah.  Arnold  develops  it  in  the  style  of  the 
Homeric  epic,  and  the  numerous  poetic  com- 
parisons or  "Homeric  similes"  (as  in  lines  110- 
115,  154-157,  160-169,  etc.)  are  due  to  this.  The 
opening  word  "And"  is  intended  to  show  that 
the  poem  presents  an  episode  in  a  longer  story. 
The  scene  is  in  the  midst  of  an  invasion  of 
Persia  by  the  Tartars  commanded  by  Peran- 
Wisa,  general  of  the  Tartar  king.  The  young 
warrior  Sohrab,  though  his  father  was  Persian, 
had  grown  to  manhood  among  the  Tartars,  his 
mother's  people,  and  is  now  their  champion.  The 
river  Oxus  was  at  this  time  the  boundary  of 
Persia;  it  rises  north  of  India  in  the  Pamir 
plateau,  and  flows  northwest  to  the  Aral  Sea.  At 
certain  points  (as  lines  388-397  and  709-715) 
Arnold  introduces  the  Oriental  philosophy  of 
fatalism.] 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  fill'd  the 

east. 
And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 


Was    hush'd,    and    still    the    men    were 

plunged  in  sleep ; 
Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not;  all  night  long 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his 

tent. 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his 

sword. 
And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left 

his  tent; 
And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog. 
Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's 

tent.  II 

Through    the    black    Tartar    tents    he 

pass'd,  which  stood 
Clustering  like  beehives  on  the  low   flat 

strand 
Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer-floods  o'er- 

flow 
When  the  sun  melts  tlie  snows  in  high 

Pamere ; 
Through   the  black  tents   he  pass'd,  o'er 

that  low  strand. 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink — the  spot  where 

first  a  boat. 
Crossing  the   stream  in  summer,  scrapes 

the  land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crown'd  the 

top  20 

With  a  clay  fort ;  but  that  was  f all'n,  and 

now 
The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it   felts  were 

spread. 
And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and 

stood 
Upon  the  thick  piled  carpets  in  the  tent, 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his 

bed 
Of  rugs  and  "felts,  and  near  him  lay  his 

arms. 
And   Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the 

step 
Was    duU'd;    for  he   slept   light,    an   old 

man's  sleep; 
And    he   rose  quickly   on  one   arm,   and 

said :—  30 

"Who  art  thou?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear 

dawn. 
Speak!  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm?" 
But  Sohrab  came  to  the   bedside,  and 

said : — 
"Thou  know'st  me,  Peran-Wisa!  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep ;  but  I  sleep  not ;  all  night  long  I  lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
I'or  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


107 


Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  tTiy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  Ix^fore  tlic  army  march'd; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou  know'st  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan 
first  42 

I  came  among  the  Tartars  and  bore  arms, 
I    have    still    served    Afrasiab    well,    and 

shown. 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that  while  I  still 

bear  on 
The   conquering   Tartar  ensigns   through 

the  world, 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 
I  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone — 
Rustum,  my  father;  who  I  hoped  should 

greet,  50 

Should  one   day  greet,  upon   some   well- 
fought  field, 
His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what 

I  ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day ;  but  I 
Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian 

lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man;  if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it ;  if  I  fall — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no 

kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight,    60 
Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names 

are  sunk; 
But  of  a  single  combat  fame  speaks  clear." 
He   spoke;    and   Peran-Wisa   took   the 

hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sigh'd,  and 

said : — 
"O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine! 
Canst    thou   not   rest    among    the    Tartar 

chiefs, 
And    share    the    battle's    common    chance 

with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press   for  ever 

first. 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk. 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen? 
That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with 

us         _         _  71 

Unmurmuring;   in  our   tents,  while  it  is 

war, 
And  when  'tis  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab's 

towns. 
But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all, 
To     seek     out     Rustum — seek     him     not 

through  fight ! 
Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son ! 


But  far  hence  seek  him.  for  he  is  not  here. 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  1   was  young, 
When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray; 
But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home. 
In  Seistan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old,        82 
Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at 

last 
Feels  the  abhorr'd  approaches  of  old  age. 
Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  king. 
There  go  ! — Thou  wilt  not?    Yet  my  heart 

forebodes 
Danger  of  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well, 

though  lost 
To  us;  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in 

peace 
To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 
In  vain; — but  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub 
From  ravening,  and  who  govern  Rustum's 
son  ?  92 

Go,  I  will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  de- 
sires." 
So  said  he,  and  dropp'd  Sohrab's  hand, 
and  left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he 

lay; 
And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woollen  coat 
He  pass'd,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet. 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and 

he  took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  stafif,  no  sword; 
And  on  his  head  he  set  his  sheep-skin  cap. 
Black,  glossy,  curl'd,  the  fleece  of  Kara- 
Kul ;  loi 

And  raised  the  curtain  of  fiis  tent,  and 

call'd 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 
The  sun  by  this  had  risen,  and  clear'd 
the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering 

sands. 
And   from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horse- 
men filed 
Into  the  open  plain;  so  Haman  bade — 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 
From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse, 
they  stream'd ;  no 

As  when  some  gray  November  morn  the 

files, 
In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-neck'd 

cranes 
Stream    over    Casbin    and    the    southern 

slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries. 
Or  some  frore  ^  Caspian  reed-bed,  south- 
ward bound 
I  jroTt.     Frozen. 


108 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


For  the  warm  Persian  sea-board — so  they 

stream'd. 
The    Tartars    of    the    Oxus,   the    King's 

guard,  . 

First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps  and  with 

long  spears; 
Large  men,  large  steeds ;  who  from  Bok- 
hara come 
And    Khiva,    and    ferment    the    milk   of 

mares.  120 

Next,  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of 

the  south. 
The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 
And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian 

sands ; 
Light  men  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only 

drink 
The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 
And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse, 

who  came 
From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service 

own'd; 
The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 
And  close-set  skull-caps;  and  those  wilder 

hordes  130 

Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern 

waste, 
Kalmucks    and   unkempt   Kuzzaks,  tribes 

who  stray 
Nearest    the    Pole,    and   wandering   Kir- 

ghizzes, 
"Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pa- 
mere; 
These  all   filed  out   from   camp  into  the 

plain. 
And    on    the    other    side    the    Persians 

f  orm'd ; — 
First  a  light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they 

seem'd. 
The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan ;  and  behind, 
The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot, 
Marshall'd  battalions  bright  in  burnish'd 

steel.  140 

But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came. 
Threading   the   Tartar   squadrons   to   the 

front, 
And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost 

ranks. 
And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians, 

saw 
That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back, 
He  took  his   spear,  and  to  the   front  he 

came, 
And   check'd   his   ranks,    and   fix'd  them 

where  they  stood. 
And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 


Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and 

said : 
"Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars, 

hear!  150 

Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to- 
day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian 

lords 
To   fight  our  champion   Sohrab,  man   to 

man." 
As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 
When  the  dew  glistens  on  the  pearled  ears, 
A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for 

joy- 
So,   when   they   heard   what   Peran-Wisa 

said, 
A  thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons 

ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they 

loved.  159 

But  as  a  troop  of  pedlars  from  Cabool 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus, 
That   vast    sky-neighboring    mountain   of 

milk  snow; 
Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they 

pass 
Long  flocks  of  travelling  birds  dead  on  the 

snow. 
Choked  by  the   air,  and  scarce  can  they 

themselves 
Slake  their  parch'd  throats  with  sugar'd 

mulberries — 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their 

breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'er- 

hanging  snows — 
So   the   pale    Persians   held   their   breath 

with  fear. 
And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came 

up  170 

To  counsel :  Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And    Feraburz,    who    ruled    the    Persian 

host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  king; 
These    came    and    counsell'd,    and    then 

Gudurz   said : — 
"Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  chal- 
lenge up. 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this 

youth. 
He   has   the   wild   stag's    foot,   the  lion's 

heart. 
But  Rustum  came  last  night;  aloof  he  sits 
And  sullen,  and  has  pitch'd  his  tents  apart. 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear    180 
The    Tartar    challenge,    and    this    young 

man's  name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


109 


Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  chal- 
lenge up." 
So  spake  he ;   and   Ferood  stood  forth 
and  cried : — 
"Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said! 
Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man." 
He  spake :  and  Peran-Wisa  turn'd,  and 
strode 
Back   through  the   opening   squadrons   to 

his  tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz 

ran. 
And  cross'd  the  camp  which   lay  behind, 
and  reach'd,  190 

Out    on   the    sands    beyond    it,    Rustum's 

tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering 

gay, 
Just  pitch'd ;  the  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 
Was  Rustum's,  and   his  men  lay  camp'd 

around. 
And    Gudurz   enter'd    Rustum's   tent   and 

found 
Rustum ;  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but 

still 
The  table  stood  before  him,  charged  with 

food — 
A   side   of   roasted   sheep,   and   cakes   of 

bread, 
And  dark  green  melons;  and  there  Rus- 
tum sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist, 
•And  play'd  with  it;  but  Gudurz  came  and 
stood  201 

Before  him;  and  he  look'd,  and  saw  him 

stand. 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up  and  dropp'd  the 

bird. 
And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and 
said : — 
"Welcome !  these  eyes  could  see  no  bet- 
ter sight. 
What  news?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat 
and  drink." 
But  Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent  door,  and 
said : — 
"Not  now !  a  time  will  come  to  eat  and 

drink, 
But  not  to-day ;  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at 
gaze;  210 

For    from    the    Tartars    is    a    challenge 

brought 
To   pick   a   champion    from   the   Persian 

lords 
To  fight  their  champion — and  thou  know'st 

his  name — 
Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 


0  Rustum,   like  thy   might  is  this  young 

man's ! 
He   has   the   wild   stag's   foot,   the   lion's 

heart; 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's^  chiefs  are 

old, 
Or  else  too  weak;  and  all  eyes  turn  to 

thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we 
lose !" 
He  spoke;  but  Rustum  answer'd  with  a 
smile : —  220 

"Go  to!  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older;   if   the  young  are  weak,   the 

king 
Errs    strangely;    for   the    king,    for    Kai 

Khosroo, 
Himself   is   young,    and   honors   younger 

men, 
And  lets  the  aged  moulder  to  their  graves. 
Rustum  he  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the 

young — 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts, 

not  L 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's 

fame? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son. 
And   not  that  one   slight   helpless   girl   I 
have —  230 

A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war. 
And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-hair'd  Zal, 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex. 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his 

herds. 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old 

age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armor  up. 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak 

old  man. 
And   spend  the  goodly  treasures   I    have 

got, 
And   rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab's 

fame. 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless 
kings,  240 

And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw 
sword  no  more." 
He  spoke,  and  smiled ;  and  Gudurz  made 
reply : — 
"What  then,  O  Rustum,  will  men  say  to 

this. 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and 

seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,   and  thou,  whom  most 

he  seeks, 
Hidest   thy   face?     Take   heed   lest   men 
should  say : 

1  Iran.     Persia. 


110 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Like  some  old  miser,  Rustum  hoards  his 

fame, 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men." 
And,  greatly  moved,  then  Rustum  made 

reply : — 
"O  Gudurz,  wherefore  dost  thou  say  such 

words?  250 

Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to 

say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or 

famed. 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me? 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself? 
But  who   for   men   of  nought  would   do 

great  deeds? 
Come,  thou  shalt  see  how  Rustum  hoards 

his  fame! 
But   I   will   fight  unknown,  and  in  plain 

arms; 
Let    not    men   say    of    Rustum,    he   was 

match'd 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 
He   spoke,    and    frown'd;    and    Gudurz 

turn'd,  and  ran  ^       260 

Back  quickly  through  the  camp   in   fear 

and  joy — 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum 

came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent-door,  and 

call'd 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his 

arms. 
And  clad  himself  in  steel;  the  arms  he 

chose 
Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  de- 
vice. 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  Inlaid  with  gold, 
And,  from  the  fluted  spine  atop,  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  waved,  a  scarlet  horsehair 

plume. 
So  arm'd,  he  issued  forth ;  and  Ruksh,  his 

horse,  270 

Follow'd   him    like   a    faithful    hound   at 

heel — 
Ruksh,  -whose  renown  was  noised  through 

all  the  earth, 
The  horse  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him 

home. 
And  rear'd  him;  a  bright  bay,  with  lofty 

crest, 
Dight  ^   with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broider'd 

green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground  were 

work'd 
X  Dighl.     Decked. 


All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunt- 
ers know. 
So   follow'd,   Rustum  left  his  tents,  and 

cross'd  280 

The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  ap- 

pear'd. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with 

shouts 
Hail'd;  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he 

was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on 

shore. 
By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all   day   in  the   blue   waves,   at 

night, 
Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls, 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands — 
So    dear    to    the    pale    Persians    Rustum 

came.  290 

And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  ad- 
vanced. 
And  Sohrab  arm'd  in  Haman's  tent,  and 

came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 
Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man's 

corn, 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing 

corn. 
And   in  the  midst  a  stubble,   short  and 

bare — 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with 

^  spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  toward  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he 

came.  301 

As    some  rich   woman,   on   a   winter's 

morn, 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor 

drudge 
Who  with  numb  blacken'd  fingers  makes 

her  fire — 
At  cock-crow,  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn. 
When  the  frost  flowers  the  whiten'd  win- 
dow-panes— 
And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what  the 

thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be;  so  Rustum 

eyes 
The    unknown    adventurous    youth,    who 

from  afar 
Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs;  long  he  pe- 
rused 311 
His  spirited  air,  and  wonder'd  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  sccm'd,  tenderly  rear'd ; 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


111 


Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark, 

and  straight, 
Which    fn    a    queen's     secluded    garden 

throws 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf, 
By    midnight,    to    a    bubbling    fountain's 

sound — 
So  slender  Sohrab  seem'd,  so  softly  rear'd. 
And  a  deep  pity  enter'd  Rustum's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming;  and  he  stood. 
And  beckon'd  to  him  with  his  hand,  and 

said: —  321 

"O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  Heaven 

is  soft, 
And  warm,  and  pleasant ;  but  the  grave 

is   cold ! 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead 

grave. 
Behold  me !  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron. 
And  tried;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a 

f^eld 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many 

a  foe — 
Never   was    that   field   lost,   or   that    foe 

saved. 
O   Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on 

death? 
Be  govem'd !   quit   the   Tartar   host,  and 

come  330 

To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me, 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die ! 
There   are   no   >ouths   in    Iran   brave   as 

thou." 
So  he  spake,  mildly;  Sohrab  heard  his 

voice. 
The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum,  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand. 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief 
Hath    builded    on    the    waste    in    former 

years 
Against  the  robbers  ;  and  he  saw  that  head, 
Streak'd   with  its  first  gray  hairs; — hope 

fill'd  his  soul,  340 

And  he   ran   forward   and  embraced  his 

knees. 
And  clasp'd  his  hand  within  his  own,  and 

said : — 
"O,  by  thy  father's  head !  by  thine  own 

soul ! 
Art  thou   not   Rustum  ?   speak !   art  thou 

not  he?" 
But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneeling 

youth. 
And  turn'd  away,  and  spake  to  his  own 

soul : — 
"Ah  me.  I   muse  what  this  young  fox 

may  mean ! 


False,    wily,    boastful,    are    these    Tartar 
boys. 

For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks. 

And  hide  it  not,  but  say:  Rustum  is  here! 

He  will   not  yield  indeed,   nor  quit   our 
foes,  '  351 

But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight. 

And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  court- 
eous gifts, 

A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 

And  on  a  feast-tide,  in  Afrasiab's  hall, 

In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry: 

'I  challenged  once,  when  the  two  armies 
camp'd 

Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 

To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight ;  but  they 

Shrank,  only  Rustum  dared;  then  he  and 
I  360 

Changed  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms 
away.' 

So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  ap- 
plaud; 

Then   were   the    chiefs    of    Iran    shamed 
through  me." 
And  then  he  turn'd,  and  sternly  spake 
aloud : — 

"Rise !  wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  ques- 
tion thus 

Of  Rustum?    I  am  here,  whom  thou  hast 
call'd 

By  challenge  forth ;  make  good  thy  vaunt, 
or  yield! 

Is  it  with  Rustum  only  thou  wouldst  fight? 

Rash   boy,    men   look   on    Rustum's    face 
and  flee ! 

For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustum 
stand  370 

Before  thy   face  this  day,  and   were  re- 
veal'd, 

There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting 
more. 

But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this— 

Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul : 

Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt  and 
yield. 

Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand, 
till  winds 

Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer- 
floods, 

Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away." 
He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  answer'd,  on  his 
feet  :— 

"Art  thou  so  fierce?    Thou  wilt  not  fright 
me  so !  380 

I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 

Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum 
stand 


112 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting 

then. 
But  Rustum  is   far  hence,  and  we  stand 

here. 
Begin!  thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread 

than  I, 
And  thou  art  proved,  I  know,  and  I  am 

young — 
But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath  of 

Heaven. 
And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  know- 

est  sure 
Thy   victory,   yet   thou   canst   not   surely 

know.  389 

For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to 

fall. 
And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea, 
Back  out  to   sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of 

death, 
We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us 

know ; 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 
He  spoke,   and   Rustum   answer'd   not, 

but  hurl'd 
His  spear;  down  from  the  shoulder,  down 

it  came,  399 

As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk, 
That  long  has  tower'd  in  the  airy  clouds. 
Drops    like   a   plummet;    Sohrab    saw    it 

come. 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash;  the 

spear 
Hiss'd,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the 

sand. 
Which    it    sent    flying   wide; — then    Soh'- 

rab  threw 
In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum's  shield; 

sharp  rang, 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turn'd  the 

spear. 
And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none 

but  he 
Could  wield ;   an  unlopp'd  trunk  it  was, 

and  huge, 
Still  rough — like  those  which  men  in  tree- 
less plains  410 
To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter- 
time 
Hath  made  in  Himalayan   forests  wrack, 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs 
— so  huge 


The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and 

struck 
One    stroke;    but    again    Sohrab    sprang 

aside. 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club 

came 
Thundering    to    earth,    and    leap'd    from 

Rustum's  hand. 
And  Rustum  follow'd  his  own  blow,  and 

fell  420 

To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutch'd 

the  sand. 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed 

his  sword. 
And   pierced   the   mighty    Rustum    while 

he  lay 
Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with 

sand; 
But  he  look'd  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared 

his  sword, 
But    courteously   drew   back,   and    spoke, 

and  said : — 
"Thou  strik'st  too  hard!  that  club  of 

thine  will  float 
Upon    the    summer-floods,    and    not    my 

bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth !  not  wroth  am 

I; 
No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my 

soul.  430 

Thou  say'st  thou  art  not  Rustum;  be  it 

so! 
Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch 

my  soul? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too — 
Have    waded    foremost    in    their    bloody 

waves. 
And   heard   their  hollow   roar  of   dying 

men; 
But   never   was    my    heart    thus    touch'd 

before. 
Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings  of 

the  heart? 
O    thou    old    warrior,    let    us    yield    to 

Heaven ! 
Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry 

spears. 
And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 
And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like 

friends,  441 

And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's 

deeds. 
There   are   enough    foes    in   the    Persian 

host, 
Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and   feel 

no  pang; 
Champions   enough   Afrasiab  has,   whom 

thou 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


113 


Mayst  fight;  fight  them,  when  they  con- 
front thy  spear ! 

But    oh,   let   there   be   peace    'twixt   thee 
and   me!" 
He  ceased,  but  while  he  spake,   Rus- 
tum  had  risen, 

And    stood    erect,    trembling   with    rage; 
his  club 

He  left  to  He,  but  had  regain'd  his  spear, 

Whose    fiery    point    now    in    his    mail'd 
right-hand  451 

Blazed  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  au- 
tumn-star, 

The  baleful  sign  of  fevers;  dust  had  soil'd 

His  stately  crest,  and  dimm'd  his  glitter- 
ing arms. 

His  breast  heav'd,  his  lips   foam'd,   and 
twice  his  voice 

Was    chok'd    with    rage;    at    last    these 
words  broke  way: — 
"Girl !   nimble  with  thy  feet,   not  with 
thy  hands ! 

Curl'd    minion,   dancer,   coiner   of    sweet 
words ! 

Fight,  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no 
morel 

Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now 

With   Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou   art 
wont  to  dance;  461 

But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 

Of  battle,   and  with   me,   who   make   no 
play 

Of  war;  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge, 
and  wine! 

Remember  all  thy  valor;  try  thy  feints 

And  cunning!  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone; 

Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both 
the  hosts 

With   thy  light   skipping   tricks,  and  thy 
girl's  wiles." 
He  spoke,   and   Sohrab  kindled   at  his 
taunts,  470 

And   he  too   drew   his   sword;   at   once 
they  Tush'd 

Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 

Come   rushing    down   together    from  the 
clouds, 

One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west; 
their  shields 

Dash'd  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 

Rose,    such    as    that    the    sinewy    wood- 
cutters 

Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 

Of    hewing    axes,    crashing    trees — such 
blows 

Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hail'd. 


And  you  would   say  that   sun  and   stars 

took  part  480 

In  that  unnatural  conflict;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  heaven,  and  dark'd  the 

sun 
Over  the  fighters'  heads ;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under    their    feet,    and    moaning    swept 

the  plain. 
And  in  a   sandy  whirlwind  wrapp'd  the 

pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapp'd,  and 

they  alone; 
For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either 

hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was 

pure. 
And    the    sun    sparkled    on    the    Oxus 

stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  blood- 
shot eyes  490 
And  laboring  breath;  first  Rustum  struck 

the  shield 
Which   Sohrab  held  stiff  out;   the   steel- 
spiked  spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  fail'd  to  reach 

the  skin. 
And  Rustum  pluck'd  it  back  with  angry 

groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rus- 

tum's  helm. 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through;  but  all 

the  crest 
He   shore   away,  and  that   proud   horse- 
hair plume. 
Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust; 
And   Rustum  bow'd  his   head ;   but  then 

the  gloom 
Grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud;  and  Ruksh, 

the  horse,  501 

Who   stood  at  hand,  utter'd  a   dreadful 

cry; — 
No  horse's  cry  was   that,  most  like  the 

roar 
Of  some  pain'd  desert-lion,  who  all  day 
Hath   trail'd   the   hunter's   javelin   in   his 

side 
And    comes    at    night    to    die    upon    the 

sand. 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked 

for  fear, 
And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  cross'd  his  stream. 
But   Sohrab  heard,   and   quail'd    not,    but 

Tush'd  on. 
And    struck    again ;    and    again    Rustum 

bow'd  510 

His    head;    but    this   time    all    the    blade, 

like  glass, 


114 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 

And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remain'd  alone. 

Then  Rustum  raised  his  head ;  his  dread- 
ful eyes 

Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menac- 
ing spear, 

And    shouted:    Rustum! — Sohrab    heard 
that  shout, 

And  shrank  amazed;  back  he  recoil'd  one 
step. 

And  scann'd  with  blinking  eyes  the   ad- 
vancing form; 

And   then   he   stood   bewilder'd;    and   he 
dropp'd 

His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced 
his  side.  520 

He  reel'd,  and  staggering  back,  sank  to 
the  ground. 

And   then   the   gloom   dispers'd,  and   the 
wind  fell. 

And    the    bright    sun    broke    forth,    and 
melted   all 

The  cloud;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the 
pair — 

Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet. 

And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 
Then,  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  be- 
gan:— 

"Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to 
kill 

A   Persian  lord  this   day,   and   strip  his 
corpse, 

And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 

Or    else    that    the    great    Rustum    would 
come  down  531 

Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would 
move 

His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 

And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would 
praise 

Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy 
fame. 

To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 

Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown 
man! 

Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be 

Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy   father 
old." 
And  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  re- 
plied :—  540 

"Unknown  thou  art;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt 
is  vain. 

Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boast- 
ful man ! 

No !  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 

For  were  I  match'd  with  ten  such  men  as 
thee, 

And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was, 


They   should   be   lying   here,    I    standing 

there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerv'd  my  arm — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in 

thee. 
Which   troubles  all   my  heart,  and  made 

my  shield 
Fall;    and    thy    spear    transfix'd    an    un- 

arm'd   foe.  550 

And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult'st  my 

fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,   fierce  man,  tremble 

to  hear: 
The    mighty    Rustum    shall    avenge    my 

death ! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the 

world. 
He   shall   avenge   my   death,   and   punish 

thee!" 
As    when    some   hunter   in    the    spring 

hath  found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest. 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake, 
And  pierced  her   with  an   arrow  as   she 

rose, 
And  follow'd  her  to  find  her  where  she 

fell  560 

Far  off; — anon  her  mate  comes  winging 

back 
From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  de- 
scries 
His  huddling  young  left  sole;  at  that,  he 

checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest;   but 

she 
Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers — never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass^  her,  flying  over  it; 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by, — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows 

his  loss,  573 

So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but 

stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 
But,  with  a  cold  incredulous  voice,  he 

said : — 
"What   prate   is   this  of   fathers   and  re- 
venge ? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 
And,   with  a   failing  voice,   Sohrab  re- 
plied : — 
"Ah  yes,  he  had !  and  that  lost  son  am  I. 

I  glass.    Reflect. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


115 


Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his 

ear,  581 

Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries 

long. 
Somewhere,   I  know  not  where,  but   far 

from  here 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him 

leap 
To   arms,    and    cry    for   vengeance    upon 

thee. 
Fierce    man,    bethink    thee,    for    an    only 

son! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  ven- 
geance be? 
Oh,  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her. 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells 
With    that    old    king,    her    father,    who 

grows  gray  591 

With    age,    and    rules    over    the    valiant 

Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is 

done. 
But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited^  up. 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear ; 
And   then   will    that    defenceless    woman 

learn 
That    Sohrab   will    rejoice   her    sight   no 

more. 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe. 
By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain."    601 
He  spoke;  and  as  he  ceased,  he  wept 

aloud, 
Thinking    of   her   he   left,    and   his    own 

death. 
He   spoke;   but   Rustum   listen'd,   plung'd 

in  thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  call'd  back  names 

he  knew; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him. 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all — 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,   for 

fear  610 

Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in 

arms; 
And    so    he    deem'd    that    either    Sohrab 

took. 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style^  of  Rustum's 

son ; 
Or  that   men   gave   it  him,  to  swell   his 

fame.  1 

I  bruited.     Noised. 
3  stylt.     Title. 


So  deem'd  he;  yet  he  listen'd,  plung'd  in 

thought. 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the   full  moon;  tears  gather'd  in  his 

eyes ; 
l'"or  he  remember'd  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture;  as,  at  dawn, 
The    sheplierd    from   his    mountain-lodge 

descries  621 

A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds — so  Rustum 

saw 
His  youth;   saw  Sohrab's  mother,  in  her 

bloom ; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved 

well 
His   wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his 

fair  child 
With  joy;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they 

led, 
They^  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer- 
time— 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful 

hills  630 

In  Ader-baijan..   And  he  saw  that  youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand. 
Like   some    rich   hyacinth    which   by   the 

scythe 
Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 
Mowing  the  garden   grass-plots  near  its 

bed. 
And    lies,    a    fragrant    tower    of    purple 

bloom. 
On  the  mown,  dying  grass — so  Sohrab  lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. " 
And  Rustum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and 

said : —  640 

"O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 

Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well 

have  loved. 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false — thou  art  not  Rus- 
tum's  son. 
For   Rustum  had  no  son;   one  child   he 

had— 
But  one — a  girl;   who   with   her   mother 

now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams 

of  us — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor 

war." 
But  Sohrab  answer'd  him  in  wrath ;  for 

now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fix'd  spear  grew 

fierce,  650 


116 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 
And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die — 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn 

foe; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said : — 
"Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my 

words? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from 

mine. 
I  tell  thee,  prick'd  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That   seal  which    Rustum  to   my  mother 

gave. 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she 

bore."  660 

He  spoke ;  and  all  the  blood  left  Rus- 

tum's  cheeks. 
And  his  knees  totter'd,  and  he  smote  his 

hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand. 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clank'd  aloud; 
And  to  his  heart  he  press'd  the  other  hand. 
And    in    a    hollow    voice   he    spake,    and 

said : — 
"Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could 

not  liel 
If  thou   show   this,   then  art   thou   Rus- 

tum's  son." 
Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab 

loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his 

arm,  ...  ^^o 

And    show'd    a    sign    in    faint    vermilion 

points 
Prick'd;  as  a  cunning  workman,  in   Pe- 

kin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porce- 
lain vase. 
An    emperor's    gift — at    early    morn    he 

paints, 
And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes, 

the   lamp 
Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin 

hands — 
So  delicately  prick'd  the  sign  appear'd 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's 

seal. 
It  was  that  griffin,  which   of  old  rear'd 

Zal, 
Rustum's    great    father,   whom   they    left 

to  die,  680 

A    helpless    babe,    among   the    mountain- 
rocks; 
Him  that  kind  creature  found,  and  rear'd, 

and  loved — 
Then    Rustum    took    it    for    his    glorious 

sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  image  on  his  arm. 


And  himself  scann'd  it  long  with  mourn- 
ful eyes. 

And  then  he  touch'd  it  with  his  hand  and 
said : — 
"How   say'st   thou?     Is    that   sign  the 
proper  sign 

Of    Rustum's    son,    or    of    some    other 
man's?" 
He    spoke;    but    Rustum    gazed,    and 
gazed,  and  stood 

Speechless;  and  then  he  utter'd  one  sharp 
ciy :  690 

0  boy — thy  father! — and  his  voice  chok'd 

there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  pass'd  before  his 

eyes. 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down 

to   earth. 
But  Sohrab  crawl'd  to  where  he  lay,  and 

cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  his 

lips. 
And   with    fond   faltering  fingers   strok'd 

his  cheeks. 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life;  and  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his 

eyes. 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;   and 

he  seized 
In   both    his   hands   the    dust   which   lay 

around,  700 

And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirch'd 

his  hair, — 
His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glit- 
tering arms; 
And   strong   convulsive  groanings    shook 

his   breast. 
And     his     sobs     chok'd     him;     and     he 

clutch'd  his  sword, 
To  draw  it,  and  for  ever  let  life  out. 
But    Sohrab    saw    his    thought,    and    held 

his   hands. 
And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and 

said : — 
"Father,  forbear!  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  which  at  my  birth  was  written 

down 
In    heaven,    and    thou    art   Heaven's   un- 
conscious hand.  710 
Surely    my    heart   cried   out    that    it    was 

thou, 
When    first   I    saw   thee;   and   thy  heart 

spoke,  too, 

1  know   it !   but   fate  trod  those  prompt- 

ings down 
'  Under  its  iron  heel ;  fate,  fate  engaged 
The  strife,  and  hurl'd  me  on  my  father's 

spear. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


117 


But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this :  I  find 
My  father;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found! 
Come,   sit   beside   me   on   this   sand,   and 

take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my 

cheeks, 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say: 

My  son!  720 

Quick !  quick !  for  number'd  are  my  sands 

of  life, 
And  swift;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this 

field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away — 
Sudden,    and    swift,    and    like    a   passing 

wind. 
But  it  was  writ  in  heaven  that  this  should 

be." 
So  said  he,  and  his  voice  released  the 

heart 
Of   Rustum,   and  his   tears  broke   forth; 

he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept 

aloud. 
And  kiss'd  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both 

the  hosts. 
When    they    saw    Rustum's    grief;    and 

Ruksh,  the  horse,  730 

With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground  and 

mane 
Sweeping   the    dust,    came   near,    and    in 

mute  woe 
First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from  his  dark,  compas- 
sionate eyes, 
The    big   warm    tears    TolI'd    down,    and 

caked  the  sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice, 

and  said : — 
"Ruksh,    now    thou    grievest;    but,    O 

Ruksh;   thy   feet 
Should  first  have  rotted  on  their  nimble 

joints. 
Or  ere  they  brought  thy  master  to  this 

field !"  740 

But  Sohrab  look'd  upon  the  horse  and 

said; — 
"Is   this,    then,    Ruksh?     How   often,    in 

past  days. 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave 

steed. 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse!    and 

said. 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and 

thee. 
Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane ! 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I ; 


For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never 

go, 
And   snuff 'd  the  breezes  of  my   father's 

home. 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 
And  seen  the  River  of  Helmund,  and  the 

Lake  751 

Of  Zirrah;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy   neck,   and  given 

thee   food, 
Corn  in  a  golden  platter  soak'd  with  wine. 
And  said:  O  Ruksh!  bear  Rustum  well! 

—but  I 
Have  never  known  my  grandsire's   fur- 

Tow'd  face. 
Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Hel- 
mund stream; 
But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and 

seen 
Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand,         760 
Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste. 
And  the  black  -Toorkmun  tents ;  and  only 

drunk 
The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their 

sheep. 
The  northern   Sir;  and  this  great  Oxus 

stream. 
The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 
Then,  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  be- 

wail'd : — 
"Oh,   that   its   waves    were   flowing   over 

me! 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll    tumbling    in    the    current    o'er    my 

head!"  770 

But,   with  a  grave  mild  voice,   Sohrab 

replied : — 
"Desire  not  that,  my  father !   thou  must 

live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and 

live. 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age ; 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come !  thou  seest  this  great  host  of 

men 
Which   follow  me;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not 

these ! 
Let  me  entreat  for  them;  what  have  they 

done  ?  780 

They    foUow'd   me,    my   hope,    my    fame, 

my  star. 
Let    them    all    cross    the    Oxus    back   in 

peace. 


118 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send 

with  them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for 

me, 
Thou,   and   the   snow-hair'd  Zal,   and  all 

thy  friends, 
And    thou    must    lay    me    in    that    lovely 

earth, 
And    heap    a    stately    mound    above    my 

bones. 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all; 
That    so   the    passing    horseman    on    the 

waste  790 

May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and 

cry : 
Sohrab,    the    mighty    Rustum's   son,    lies 

there. 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance 

kill! 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 
And,   with   a   mournful   voice,    Rustum 

replied : — 
"Fear  not;  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my 

son. 
So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  bum  my  tents, 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence 

with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for 

thee,  800 

With   the   snow-headed   Zal,   and   all   my 

friends, 
And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And    heap    a    stately    mound    above    thy 

bones. 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all. 
And   men    shall    not   forget   thee   in   thy 

grave. 
And  I  will  spare  thy  host;  yea,  let  them 

go; 
Let    them    all    cross    the    Oxus    back    m 

peace ! 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  that  I  have  ever  slain 
Might  be  once  more  alive;   my  bitterest 

foes,  810 

And  they  who  were  call'd  champions  in 

their  time. 
And    through    whose    death    I    won    that 

fame  I  have — 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  gjmmon  man, 
A   poor,    mean    soldier,   and   without   re- 
nown. 
So  thou   mightest   live    too,   my    son,  my 

son! 
Or  rather  would  that  T,  even  1  myself. 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 


Near   death,   and   by   an   ignorant   stroke 

of  thine. 
Not  thou  of  mine !  and  I  might  die,  not 

thou; 
And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan; 
And    Zal    might    weep    above    my    grave, 

not  thine;  821 

And  say:  O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 
For  willingly,  I  knoiv,  thou  met'st  thine 

end! 
But   now    in   blood   and   battles   was   my 

youth. 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age, 
And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood." 
Then,    at    the   point   of   death,    Sohrab 

replied : — 
"A   life   of  blood  .indeed,  thou   dreadful 

man ! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace;  only  not 

now. 
Not  yet !  but  thou  shalt  have   it  on  that 

day,  830 

When   thou   shalt   sail   in   a  high-masted 

ship. 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khos- 

roo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea. 
From    laying    thy    dear    master     in    his 

grave." 
And    Rustum   gazed    in    Sohrab's    face, 

and  said : — 
"Soon   be    that    day,    my    son,    and    deep 

that  sea! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 
He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him, 

and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and 

eased 
His   wound's   imperious  anguish;   but   the 

blood  840 

Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and 

life 
Flow'd   with   the   stream ;  —  all   down   his 

cold  white  side 
The   crimson   torrent   ran,   dim   now   and 

soil'd. 
Like  the  soil'd  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gather'd,  on  the  native  bank. 
By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with 

haste 
Indoors    from    the    sun's   eye;    his    head 

droop'd  low. 
His  limbs  grew  slack;  motionless,  white, 

he  lay — 
White,  with  eyes  closed ;  only  when  heavy 

gasps, 
Deep  heavy  gasps,  quivering  through  all 

his  frame,  850 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


119 


Convuls'd    him    back    to    life,    he    open'd 

them, 
And    fix'd    them    feebly    on    his    father's 

face; 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebb'd,  and  from 

his  limbs 
Unwillingly   the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting   the   warm   mansion   which   it 

left, 
And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delight- 
ful world. 
So,   on    the   bloody   sand,    Sohrab   lay 

dead; 
And  the  great   Rustum  drew  his  horse- 
man's cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead 

son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high- 

rear'd  860 

By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights 

of  steps 
Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain 

side — 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 
And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn 

waste, 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole 

pair. 
And  darken'd  all;  and  a  cold   fog,  with 

night. 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.    Soon  a  hum  arose. 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loos'd,  and  fires 
Began  to    twinkle   through   the    fog;    for 

now  870 

Both   armies   moved   to   camp,   and   took 

their   meal; 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,     the     Tartars     by     the    river 

marge ; 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of   the   mist   and  hum  of  that  low 

land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved. 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Chorasmian 

waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon; — he  flow'd 
Right   for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,   and   bright,    and   large;    then 

sands  began  881 

To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his 

streams, 
And  split  his  currents ;  that  .for  many  a 

league 
The    shorn    and    parcell'd    Oxus    strains 

along 


Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy 

isles; 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in  Pamere, 
A   foil'd  circuitous  wanderer — till  at  last 
The  long'd-for  dash  of   waves  is  heard, 

and  wide 
His    luminous    home    of    waters    opens, 

bright  890 

And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new- 

bath'd   stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

(1853) 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE   LIGHT 
BRIGADE 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[This  poem  deals  with  an  incident  in  the  Bat- 
tle of  Balaclava,  in  the  Crimean  War,  fought 
on  October  25,  1854.  The  Russians  had  begun 
the  conflict  by  capturing  Vorontsov  Heights; 
their  cavalry  then  advanced  in  large  numbers  to 
clear  Balaclava  plain,  which  was  partly  occupied 
by  British  cavalry.  The  charge  of  the  Heavy 
Brigade  (see  page  000),  under  General  Scarlett, 
routed  them  and  compelled  them  to  return  to 
the  hill-crest.  An  order — the  result  of  a  mis- 
understanding—  was  then  brought  commanding 
the  Light  Brigade  to  charge  the  Russian  guns; 
in  making  the  effort  the  brigade  lost  over  half 
its  horses  and  over  a  third  of  its  men.] 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the   six   hundred. 
"Forward  the  Light  Brigade ! 
Charge  for  the  guns !"  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd?  10 

Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd. 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in   front  of  them 
VoUey'd  and  thunder'd ; 


2a 


120 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while  30 

AH  the  world  wonder'd. 
Plunged   in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them,  40 

Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  50 

O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 


(1854) 


INSTANS    TYRANNUS 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[The  title  means  "The  Harassing  Tyrant."  It 
is  he  who  speaks,  narrating  an  unexpected  de- 
feat.] 

Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 

I  struck  him,  he  groveled  of  course — 
For  what   was  his   force? 
I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 
And  persistence  of  hate : 


And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would  not 

curse. 
As  his  lot  might  be  worse.  10 

"Were  the   object  less   mean,   would   he 

stand 
At  the  swing  of  my  hand! 
For  obscurity  helps  him  and  blots 
The  hole  where  he  squats." 
So,  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 
To  inveigle  the  wretch. 
All  in  vain!     Gold  and  jewels  I  threw, 
Still  he  couched  there  perdue ;  ^ 
I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh. 
Hid  in  roses  my  mesh,^  20 

Choicest    cates  ^    and    the    flagon's    best 

spilth  :* 
Still  he  kept  to  his  filth. 

Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 

To  his  heart,  did  I  press : 

Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  seize! 

No  such  booty  as  these. 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two. 

Who  could  pay  me  in  person  or  pelf 

What  he  owes  me  himself !  30 

No:   I  could  not  but  smile  through   my 

chafe  :S 
For  the  fellow  lay  safe 
As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the  nit, 
— Through   minuteness,  to  wit. 

Then  a  humor  more  great  took  its  place 

At  the  thought  of  his   face, 

The  droop,  the  low  cares  of  the  mouth, 

The  trouble  uncouth 

'Twixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is  fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain.  40 

And  "no!"  I  admonished  myself, 

"Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf. 

Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat? 

The  gravamen's'^  in  that ! 

How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 

His  back  to  my  foot. 

Would  admire'^  that  I  stand  in  debate! 

But  the  small  turns^  the  great 

If  it  vexes  you, — that  is  the  thing! 

Toad  or  rat  vex  the  king?  SO 

Though  I  waste  half  my  realm  to  unearth 

Toad  or  rat,   'tis   well   worth  1" 

I  perdue.     In  concealment. 
3  mesh.     Net. 

3  catfs.     Dainties. 

4  spilth.     Outpourings. 

5  chafe.     Vexation. 

6  gravamen.     Chief  hardship. 

7  admire.     Wonder. 

8  turns.     Becomes. 


K^ 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


121 


So  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Round  his  creep-hole,  with  never  a  break, 

Ran  my  fires  for  his  sake ; 

Over-head  did  my  thunder  combine 

With  my  underground  mine : 

Till  I  looked  from  my  labor  content 

To  enjoy  the  event.^  60 

When  sudden  .  .  .  how  think  ye,  the 
end? 

Did  I   say  "without  friend"? 

Say  rather,  from  marge^  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe,^ 

With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  Arm  ran  across 

Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a 
breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  pressed ! 

Do  you  see?  Just  my  vengeance  com- 
plete. 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  70 

Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts,  and 
prayed ! 

— So,  /  was  afraid! 

(1855) 


But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  spoke  unto  his  men :  10 

"Half  England  is  wrong,  if  he  be  right; 
Bear  off  to  the  westward  then." 

"O  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman?" 

Cried  the  little  Esquimau. 
"Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go." 

"Come    down,     if    you     would    journey 
there," 

The  little  Indian  said ; 
"And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing. 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled."  20 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too: 

"A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new." 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day 

The  vessels  westward  sped. 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was 
blown. 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled; — 


A    BALLAD    OF    SIR    JOHN 

FRANKLIN 

GEORGE    HENRY    BOKER 

[In  May,  1845,  Sir  John  Franklin,  British 
rear-admiral  and  explorer,  set  sail  with  two  ships, 
under  orders  of  the  Admiralty,  to  discover  a 
northwest  passage  to  the  Pacific.  With  provision 
for  three  years  he  left  Greenland,  and  was  last 
seen  July  26,  1845,  near  the  western  outlet  of 
Baffin  Bay.  Fourteen  years  later  a  private  ex- 
pedition found  a  record  of  the  voyage  of  dis- 
covery; Franklin  had  sailed  through  Lancaster 
Sound,  Barrow  Strait,  southward  through  Peel 
and  Franklin  Straits,  and  had  almost  found 
M'CHntock  Strait,  which  would  have  led  him 
through  to  the  Pacific.  He  died  June  11,  1847, 
and  the  rest  of  his  party  perished  while  trying 
to  work  south  by  land.] 

"O,  whither  sail  you.  Sir  John  Franklin?" 
Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Bay. 

"To  know   if  between  the  land  and  the 
Pole 
I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way." 

"I  charge  you  back.  Sir  John  Franklin, 
As  you  would  live  and  thrive ; 

For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  Pole 
No  man  may  sail  alive." 

I  event.     Outcome. 

3  marge.     Edge,  horizon. 

3  targe.     Shield. 


Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan. 
And  with  many  a  surly  roar,  30 

But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every 
side. 
And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

"Ho!  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said ! 
Think  of  the   little   Indian's   sledl" 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 

"Sir  John,  Sir  John,  'tis  bitter  cold, 
The  scud*  drives  on  the  breeze : 

The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  North, 
The  very  sunbeams  freeze."  41 

"Bright      summer     goes,      dark     winter 
comes, — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down. 

On  yonder  sea  we'll  steer." 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose. 
And  floundered  down  the  gale ; 

The   ships   were   stayed,   the  yards    were 
manned, 
And  furled  the  useless  sail. 


4  scud.     Body  of  flying  clouds. 


122 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"The  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come, — 
We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea.  51 

Why  sail  we  not,   Sir  John  Franklin?" 
A  silent  man  was  he. 

"The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes, — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year; 
I  ween  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  John,  wherein  we'd  steer." 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on. 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 
Till    the    thickening    waters    dashed    no 
more :  60 

'Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before — 

My  God !  there  is  no  sea ! 

What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now? 

What  of  the  Esquimau? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship 

To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow. 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 
The  northern  light  came  out. 

And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 
And  shook  its  spears  about.  70 

The    snow    came    down,    storm    breeding 
storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid, 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade, 

"Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 
The  hard,  green  ice  is  strong  as  death; — 

I  prithee.  Captain,  speak !" 

"The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 
The  singing  breeze  is  cold  ; —  80 

The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope; 
The  heart  of  man  is  bold!" 

"What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall. 

High  over  the  main  flag-staff? 
Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down,  with  a  patient,  settled  stare, 
Look  down  on  us  and  laugh." 

"The  summer  went,  the  winter  came, — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year; 
But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again,        90 
And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main. 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer." 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went. 

The  winter  came  around ; 
But   the   hard,   green   ice   was    strong   as 

death. 
And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a  breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 


"Hark !    heard    you    not    the    noise    of 
guns? — 

And  there,  and  there,  again?" 
'*Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar,  100 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main. 

"Hurra  1    Hurra!  the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice-fields  steal : 
God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity !" — 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal. 

"Sir  John,  where  are  the  English  fields. 
And  where  are  the  English  trees. 

And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 
That  open  in  the  breeze?" 

"Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors!       no 
You  shall   see  the   fields  again. 

And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flow- 
ers. 
The  grass,  and  the  waving  grain." 

"Oh !  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me." 
"Oh !  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother. 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee?" 

"Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again." 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek :   120 

He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 

"Ah  I  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 
The  ice  grows  more  and  more; 

More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 
More   patient    than   before. 

"O  think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 

We'll  ever  see  the  land? 
'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 

Without  a  helping  hand. 

"  'Twas  cruel.  Sir  John,  to  send  us  here, 
So  far  from  help  or  home,  131 

To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 
I  ween  the  lords  of  the  Admiralty 
Would  rather  send  than  come." 


"Oh!  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country. 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done— 
The  truth  is  found,  the  secret  won— 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea!" 

(1856) 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


123 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S    RIDE 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WillTTIER 

[Based  on  a  story  of  Marblehead  which  Whit- 
tier  heard  in  his  boyhood.  Its  historicity,  how- 
ever, has  been  denied,  and  he  said  that  the 
ballad  should  be  thought  of  as  "pure  fancy."] 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass,^ 
Or  one-eyed  Calender*s  horse  of  brass, 
Witch   astride   of  a   human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was    Ireson's,    out    from    Marblehead ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 
cart  10 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 


Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part. 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young. 
Strong  of  muscle,   and  glib  of  tongue. 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane. 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 

"Here's    Flud    Oirson ,   fur    his    horrd 
horrt,  20 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips. 
Wild-eyed,   free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  sotne  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns' 

twang, 
Over  and  over  the  Maenads^  sang :         30 
"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd    an'    futherr'd    an'    corr'd    in    a 
corrt 
By  the  women  o'   Morble'ead!" 

Small  pity  for  him ! — He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship  on  Chaleur   Bay, — ^ 

1  The  Golden  Ass  of  Apuleius  was  a  famous 
Latin  story  of  the  second  century.  Calender  and 
his  horse  are  from  the  Arabian  Nights.  Al-Borak 
was  sent  by  Gabriel  to  carry  Mohammed  to  the 
heavens. 

2  Mienads.     Furies. 

3  Chaleur  Bay.     In  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence. 


Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-pcople  on  her  deck! 
"Lay  by!  lay  by!"  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again !"        40 
And  off  he   sailed  through   the    fog  and 
rain! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 
cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,   wife  and  maid. 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,— 
Looked    for   the   coming   that   might   not 
be !  .50 

What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away? — • 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 
cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side. 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,   old  wives  gray. 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,   cripple-bound,       60 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground. 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane. 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse   re- 
frain : 
"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd    an'    futherr'd    an'    corr'd    in    a 
corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew  69 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there   in   his   sorry  trim. 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd   an'    futherr'd    an*    corr'd    in    a 
corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

"Hear  me,  neighbors !"  at  last  he  cried, — 
"What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride?  79 

\\'hat  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within? 


124 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  only   dread 
The  hand   of  God   and   the   face  of   the 
dead !" 
Said    old    Floyd   Ireson,   for   his   hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 
cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "God  has  touched  him!  why  should 
wel"  90 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run !" 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse. 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in. 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and 
sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 
cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

(i8S7) 


KING    SOLOMON 

OWEN    MEREDITH 

(ROBERT,  LORD  LYTTON) 

[Jewish  legendry  was  full  of  stories  connect- 
ing King  Solomon  with  magical  powers,  cabalistic 
symbols,  etc.  On  one  of  these  legends  the  pres- 
ent poem  is  based.  The  Pentagraph  (more 
firoperly  Pentagram)  was  a  five-pointed  design 
ike  a  star,  credited  with  mystic  significance.] 

King   Solomon   stood,   in   his   crown   of 
gold. 
Between  the  pillars,  before  the  altar 
In  the  House  of  the  Lord.    And  the  King 
was  old. 
And  his  strength  began  to  falter. 
So  that  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff, 
Sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  Pentagraph. 

All   of  the  golden   fretted  work. 
Without  and  within  so  rich  and  rare. 

As  high  as  the  nest  of  the  building  stork. 
Those  pillars  of  cedar  were, —  10 

Wrought  up  to  the  brazen  chapiters  ^ 

Of  the  Sidonian  artificers. 

I  chapiters.     Capitals.     See  /  Kings,  7:  13-16. 


And  the  King  stood  still  as  a  carven  king. 
The  carven  cedarn  beams  below. 

In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet-ring. 
And  his  beard  as  white  as  snow. 

And  his  face  to  the  Oracle,^  where  the 
hymn 

Dies  under  the  wing  of  the  cherubim. 

The  wings  fold  over  the  Oracle, 

And  cover  the  heart  and  eyes  of  God: 

The  Spouse  with  pomegranate,  lily,  and 

bell,3  ^  21 

Is  glorious  in  her  abode; 

For   with   gold   of    Ophir,   and   scent   of 

myrrh. 
And  purple  of  Tyre,  the  King  clothed  her. 

By  the  soul  of  each  slumbrous  instrument 
Drawn  soft  through  the  musical  misty 
air. 

The  stream  of  folk  that  came  and  went, 
For  worship,  and  praise,   and  prayer, 

Flowed  to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down. 

And  round  the  King  in  his  golden  crown. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  King  stood 
there.  31 

And  looked  on  the  house  he  had  built, 
with  pride. 

That   the    Hand   of   the   Lord   came   un- 
aware, 
And  touched  him ;  so  that  he  died. 

In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet-ring. 

And    the     crown     wherewith     they     had 
crowned  him  king. 

And   the   stream   of   the   folk  that  came 
and  went 
To  worship  the  Lord  with  prayer  and 
praise, 
Went  softly  ever,  in  wonderment, 

For  the  King  stood  there  always ;     40 
And  it  was  solemn  and  strange  to  behold 
The  dead  king  crowned  with  a  crown  of 
gold. 

For  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff  upright ; 

And  over  his  shoulders  the  purple  robe ; 

And   his   hair   and    his    beard    were   both 

snow-white. 

And  the  fear  of  him  filled  the  globe; 

So  that  none  dared  touch  him,  though  he 

was  dead. 
He  looked  so  royal  about  the  head. 

2  Oracle.     See  /  Kings,  6:  19-28. 

3  See  Psalm  45:   8-13;  Exodus,  38:33;  /  Kings, 
7:  18-10. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


125 


And  the  moons  were  changed;   and  the 

years  rolled  on; 

And  the  new  king  reigned  in  the  old 

king's  stead;  So 

And  men  were  married  and  buried  anon; 

But  the  King  stood,  stark  and  dead, 
Leaning  upright  on  his  ebony  staff, 
Preserved  by  the  sign  of  the  Pentagraph. 

And  the  stream  of  life,  as   it  went  and 

came, 
Ever  for  worship  and  praise  and  prayer, 
Was  awed  by  the  face,  and  the  fear,  and 

the  fame 
Of   the   dead   king  standing  there; 
For  his  hair  was  so  white,  and  his  eyes 

so  cold. 
That  they  left  him  alone  with  his  crown 

of  gold,  60 

So  King  Solomon  stood  up,  dead,  in  the 
House 
Of  the  Lord,  held  there  by  the  Penta- 
graph, 

Until  out  from  the  pillar  there  ran  a  red 
mouse, 
And  gnawed  through  his  ebony  staff; 

Then  flat  on  his  face  the  King  fell  down, 

And  they  picked  from  the  dust  a  golden 
crown. 

(1857) 


KING   ROBERT   OF   SICILY 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

["The  Sicilian's  Tale"  in  Tales  of  a  Wayside 
Inn.  The  story  is  a  medieval  legend  found  in 
various  forms.] 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Ur- 
bane 
And  Valmond,  Emperor  of  Allemaine, 
Appareled   in   magnificent   attire, 
With    retinue    of    many    a    knight    and 

squire, 
On  St.  John's  Eve,  at  vespers,  proudly 

sat 
And  heard  the  priests  chant  the  Mag- 

nificat.i 
And  as  he  listened,  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Repeated,  like  a  burden   or   refrain, 
He  caught  the  words,  Deposuit  potcntes 
De  sede,  et  exaltavit  humiles;  10 

And  slowly  lifting  up  his  kingly  head. 
He  to  a  learned  clerk  beside  him  said, 
I  Magnificat,     The  hymn  from  Luke  i:46.ss. 


"What  mean  these  words?"    The  clerk 

made  answer  meet, 
"He    has    put    down    the    mighty    from 

their  seat. 
And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 
Thereat    King    Robert    muttered    scorn- 
fully, 
"'Tis  well  that  such  seditious  words  are 

sung 
Only    by    priests    and    in     the     Latin 

tongue; 
For  unto  priests  and  people  be  it  known 
There  is  no  power  can  push  me   from 

my  throne!"  20 

And  leaning  back,  he  yawned  and  fell 

asleep. 
Lulled   by   the   chant   monotonous   and 

deep. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  already  night; 
The  church  was  empty,  and  there  was 

no   light. 
Save  where  the  lamps,  that  glimmered 

few  and   faint. 
Lighted  a  little  space  before  some  saint. 
He    started    from    his    seat    and    gazed 

around. 
But  saw  no  living  thing  and  heard  no 

sound. 
He  groped  towards  the  door,  but  it  was 

locked; 
He  cried  aloud,  and  listened,  and  then 

knocked,  30 

And    uttered    awful    threatenings    and 

complaints, 
And  imprecations  upon  men  and  saints. 
The  sounds  reechoed  from  the  roof  and 

walls 
As  if  dead  priests  were  laughing  in  their 

stalls. 

At    length    the    sexton,    hearing    from 

without 
The    tumult   of   the    knocking   and    the 

shout, 
And  thinking  thieves  were  in  the  house 

of  prayer, 
Came  with  his  lantern,  asking,  "Who  is 

there?" 
Half   choked   with    rage,    King    Robert 

fiercely  said, 
"Open:    'tis    I,    the    king!      Art    thou 

afraid?"  40 

The  frightened  sexton,  muttering,  with 

a  curse, 
"This    is    some    drunken    vagabond,    or 

worse," 


126 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Turned  the  great  key  and  flung  the  por- 
tal wide; 

A  man  rushed  by  him  at  a  single  stride, 

Haggard,  half  naked,  without  hat  or 
cloak, 

Who  neither  turned,  nor  looked  at  him, 
nor  spoke, 

But  leaped  into  the  blackness  of  the 
night. 

And  vanished  like  a  spectre  from  his 
sight. 

Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Ur- 
bane 

And  Valmond,   Emperor  of  AUemaine, 

Despoiled  of  his  magnificent  attire,     51 

Bareheaded,  breathless,  and  besprent 
with   mire. 

With  sense  of  wrong  and  outrage  des- 
perate, 

Strode  on  and  thundered  at  the  palace 
gate; 

Rushed  through  the  courtyard,  thrust- 
ing in  his  rage 

To  right  and  left  each  seneschal  and 
page, 

And  hurried  up  the  broad  and  sound- 
ing stair. 

His  white  face  ghastly  in  the  torches* 
glare. 

From  hall  to  hall  he  passed  with 
breathless  speed; 

Voices  and  cries  he  heard,  but  did  not 
heed,  60 

Until  at  last  he  reached  the  banquet- 
room, 

Blazing  with  light,  and  breathing  with 
perfume. 

There  on  the  dais  sat  another  king, 

Wearing  his  robes,  his  crown,  his  sig- 
net-ring, 

King  Robert's  self  in  features,  form, 
and  height, 

But  all  transfigured  with  angelic  light! 

It  was  an  Angel;  and  his  presence  there 

With  a  divine  effulgence  filled  the  air, 

An   exaltation,   piercing  the   disguise, 

Though  none  the  hidden  angel  recog- 
nize. 70 

A  moment  speechless,  motionless, 
amazed, 

The  throneless  monarch  on  the  Angel 
gazed. 

Who  met  his  look  of  anger  and  sur- 
prise 

With  the  divine  compassion  of  his  eyes; 


Then   said,   "Who   art    thou?   and   why 

com'st  thou  here?" 
To  which   King  Robert  answered  with 

a  sneer, 
"I  am  the  king,  and  come  to  claim  my 

own 
From    an    impostor,    who    usurps    my 

throne!" 
And     suddenly,     at     these     audacious 

words, 
Up  sprang  the  angry  guests,  and  drew 

their  swords;  80 

The    Angel    answered,    with    unruffled 

brow, 
"Nay,  not  the  king,  but  the  king's  jes- 
ter, thou 
Henceforth    shall    wear    the    bells    and 

scalloped  cape, 
And  for  thy  counsellor  shalt  lead  an  ape ; 
Thou  shalt  obey  my  servants  when  they 

call. 
And   wait   upon   my   henchmen    in   the 

hall!" 

Deaf  to  King  Robert's  threats  and  cries 
and  prayers, 

They  thrust  him  from  the  hall  and  down 
the  stairs; 

A  group  of  tittering  pages  ran  before. 

And  as  they  opened  wide  the  folding- 
door,  90 

His  heart  failed,  for  he  heard,  with 
strange  alarms. 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  the  men-at- 
arms, 

And  all  the  vaulted  chamber  roar  and 
ring 

With  the  mock  plaudits  of  "Long  live 
the  king!" 

Next   morning,  waking  with   the   day's 

first  beam. 
He    said    within    himself,    "It    was    a 

dream!" 
But  the  straw  rustled  as  he  turned  his 

head; 
There  were  the  cap  and  bells  beside  his 

bed; 
Around   him  rose   the  bare,   discolored 

walls; 
Close  by,  the  steeds  were  champing  in 

their  stalls,  ^  100 

And  in  the' corner,  a  revolting  shape, 
Shivering     and      chattering,      sat      the 

wretched  ape. 
It  was  no  dream;  the  world  he  loved 

so  much 
Had   turned   to   dust  and   ashes   at   his 

touch! 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


127 


Days  came  and  went;  and  now  returned 

again 
To  Sicily  the  old  Saturnian  reign;i 
Under  the  Angel's  governance  benign 
The  happy  island  danced  with  corn  and 

wine, 
And  deep  within  the  mountain's  burn- 
ing breast 
Enceladus,2  the  giant,  was  at  rest,     no 
Meanwhile  King  Robert  yielded  to  his 

fate. 
Sullen  and  silent  and  disconsolate. 
Dressed  in  the  motley  garb  that  jesters 

wear, 
With    look    bewildered    and    a    vacant 

stare, 
Close  shaven  along  the  ears,  as  monks 

are  shorn. 
By  courtiers  mocked,  by  pages  laughed 

to  scorn, 
His  only  friend  the  ape,  his  only  food 
What  others  left, — he  still  was  unsub- 
dued. 
And  when  the  Angel  met  him  on  his 

way. 
And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  would 

say,  120 

Sternly  though  tenderly,  that  he  might 

feel 
The  velvet  scabbard  held  a  sword  of 

steel, 
"Art  thou  the  king?"  the  passion  of  his 

woe 
Burst  from  him  in  resistless  overflow. 
And,  lifting  high  his  forehead,  he  would 

fling 
The  haughty  answer  back,  "I  am,  I  am 

the  king !" 

Almost  three  years  were  ended;  when 

there  came 
Ambassadors  of  great  repute  and  name 
From  Valmond,  Emperor  of  AUemaine, 
Unto    King   Robert,    saying   that   Pope 

Urbane  130 

By  letter  summoned  them  forthwith  to 

come 
On  Holy  Thursday  to  his  city  of  Rome. 
The  Angel  with  great  joy  received  his 

guests. 
And  gave  them  presents  of  embroidered 

vests. 
And   velvet   mantles   with   rich   ermine 

lined, 
And  rings  and  jewels  of  the  rarest  kind. 

1  Saturnian    reign.      Reign    of    the  god   Saturn, 
reputed   to  be  the  "golden  age"  of  antiquity. 

2  Enceladus.      Buried,      according      to      ancient 
myth,  beneath  the  volcano  .iStna. 


Then  he  departed  with  them  o'er  the 
sea 

Into  the  lovely  land  of  Italy, 

Whose  loveliness  was  more  resplendent 
made 

By  the  mere  passing  of  that  cavalcade, 

With  plumes,  and  cloaks,  and  housings, 
and  the  stir  141 

Of  jeweled  bridle  and  of  golden  spur. 

And  lo!  among  the  menials,  in  mock 
state, 

Upon  a  piebald  steed,  with  shambling 
gait. 

His  cloak  of  fox-tails  flapping  in  the 
wind, 

The  solemn  ape  demurely  perched  be- 
hind. 

King  Robert  rode,  making  huge  merri- 
ment 

In  all  the  country  towns  through  which 
they  went. 

The    Pope    received    them   with    great 

pomp  and  blare 
Of  bannered  trumpets,  on  Saint  Peter's 

square,  150 

Giving  his  benediction  and  embrace. 
Fervent,  and  full  of  apostolic  grace. 
While    with    congratulations    and   with 

prayers 
He  entertained  the  Angel  unawares, 
Robert,  the  Jester,  bursting  through  the 

crowd, 
Into   their   presence   rushed,   and   cried 

aloud, 
"I  am  the  king!   Look,  and  behold  in  me 
Robert,  your  brother.  King  of  Sicily! 
This  man,  who  wears  my  semblance  in 

your  eyes, 
Is  an  impostor  in  a  king's  disguise.     160 
Do  you  not  know  me?  does  no  voice 

within 
Answer  my  cry,  and  say  we  are  akin?" 
The  Pope  in  silence,  but  with  troubled 

mien. 
Gazed   at   the  Angel's  countenance   se- 
rene; 
The    Emperor,    laughing,    said,    "It    is 

strange  sport 
To    keep    a    madman    for    thy    fool    at 

court!" 
And  the  poor,  bafHed  jester  in  disgrace 
Was  hustled  back  among  the  populace. 

In   solemn  state  the   Holy  Week  went 

by, 
And   Easter  Sunday  gleamed  upon  the 

sky;  170 


128 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The   presence   of   the   Angel,   with   its 

light, 
Before    the    sun    rose,    made    the    city 

bright, 
And  with  new  fervor  filled  the  hearts  of 

men, 
Who  felt  that  Christ  indeed  had  risen 

again. 
Even  the  jester,  on  his  bed  of  straw, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  unwonted  splen- 
dor saw; 
He  felt  within  a  power  unfelt  before, 
And,  kneeling  humbly  on  his  chamber 

floor. 
He  heard  the  rustling  garments  of  the 

Lord 
Sweep  through  the  silent  air,  ascending 

heavenward.  i8o 

And   now   the   visit   ending,   and   once 

more 
Valmond    returning    to    the    Danube's 

shore, 
Homeward    the    Angel   journeyed,    and 

again 
The   land  was   made   resplendent  with 

his  train, 
Flashing  along  the  towns  of  Italy 
Unto  Salerno,  and  from  thence  by  sea. 
And  when  once  more  within  Palermo's 

wall. 
And,   seated   on   the  throne   in  his   great 

hall, 
He    heard    the   angelus    from    convent 

towers. 
As  if  the  better  world  conversed  with 

ours,  190 

He  beckoned  to  King  Robert  to  draw 

nigher. 
And  with  a  gesture  bade  the  rest  retire; 
And  when  they  were  alone,  the  Angel 

said, 
"Art    thou    the    king?"     Then,   bowing 

down  his  head. 
King  Robert  crossed  both  hands  upon 

his  breast. 
And     meekly     answered     him:     "Thou 

knowest  best! 
My  sins  as  scarlet  are;  let  me  go  hence, 
And  in  some  cloister's  school  of  peni- 
tence, 
Across  those  stones  that  pave  the  way 

to  heaven 
Walk  barefoot,   till   my   guilty   soul  be 

shriven  !"i  200 

The  Angel  smiled,  and  from  his  radiant 

face 
A  holy  light  illumined  all  the  place, 

I  shriven.     Confessed  (and  forgiven). 


And    through    the    open    window,    loud 

and  clear. 
They    heard    the    monks    chant    in    the 

chapel  near. 
Above  the  stir  and  tumult  of  the  street: 
"He    has   put    down    the    mighty    from 

their  seat, 
And  has  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 
And  through  the  chant  a  second  melody 
Rose    like    the    throbbing    of    a    single 

string, 
"I    am    an    Angel,    and    thou    art    the 

king!"  210 

King   Robert,   who   was   standing   near 

the  throne. 
Lifted  his  eyes,  and  lo!  he  was  alone! 
But  all  appareled  as  in  days  of  old. 
With    ermined    mantle    and   with    cloth 

of  gold; 
And    when    his    courtiers    came,    they 

found  him  there 
Kneeling  upon   the   floor,   absorbed   in 

silent  prayer. 

(1861) 


THE   COURTIN' 

JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 

[A  ballad  in  the  dialect  of  rural  New  England 
of  the  early  19th  century,  supposed  to  have  been 
written  by  Hosea  Bigelow,  the  chief  character 
in   Lowell's   Bigelow  Papers.] 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an' 
still 

Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen; 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill. 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder; 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hinder. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in —  10 

There   warn't   no   stoves    (tell   comfort 
died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


129 


Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  ^  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The    ole    queen's-arm  2    thet    gran'ther 
Young 

Fetched   back   from   Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in,  21 

Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An*  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur; 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 


He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  the  mat. 

Some  doubtful  o'  the  sekle;-*^ 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity-Zekle.  60 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder. 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 
"Wal — no — I  come  designin'  " — 

"To     see     my     Ma?       She's     sprinklin' 
clo'es 
Agin    to-morrer's    i'nin.' " 


He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i, 
Clean  grit  an'  human  natur'; 

None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 
Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighten 


To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 
30  Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin'; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 


70 


He'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
He'd  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv 
'em. 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells — 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinkly  like   curled  maple; 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il.  40 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 

Felt  somehow  thru  its  crown  a  pair 
O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some! 

She  seemed  to've  gut  a  new  soul,    50 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'   on   the   scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like   sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

I  crook-necks.     Squashes. 
a  queen's-arm.     Musket. 


He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust. 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other. 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I'd  better  call  agin"; 

Says   she,  "Think   likely,   Mister" — 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An' — wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her.  80 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

Fur  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary. 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snow-hid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt 
glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin',  90 

Tell  mother  see  how  matters  stood 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy; 

An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried^ 
In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

(1866) 

3  sekle.     Sequel. 

4  they    was    cried. 
announced. 


Their    marhage-bans    were 


130 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND 

WILLIAM    MORRIS 

A  certain  man,  having  landed  on  an  island  in 
the  Greek  Sea,  found  there  a  beautiful  dam- 
sel, whom  he  would  fain  have  delivered  from 
a  strange  and  dreadful  doom,  but  failing 
herein,  he  died  soon   afterwards. 

It  happened  once,  some  men  of  Italy 

Midst  the  Greek  Islands  went  a  sea- 
roving, 

And  much  good  fortune  had  they  on  the 
sea: 

Of  many  a  man  they  had  the  ransoming, 

And  many  a  chain  they  gat,  and  goodly 
thing ; 

And  midst  their  voyage  to  an  isle  they 
came, 

Whereof  my  story  keepeth  not  the  name. 

Nov/  though  but  little  was  there  left  to 

gain, 
Because  the  richer  folk  had  gone  away, 
Yet    since    by   this   of   water   they    were 

faini  10 

They  came  to  anchor  in  a  land-locked  bay, 
Whence  in  a  while  some  went  ashore  to 

Going  but  lightly  armed  in  twos  or  threes, 
For  midst  that  folk  they  feared  no  ene- 
mies. 

And    of   these    fellows    that    thus    went 

ashore, 
One  was  there  who  left  all  his  friends 

behind ; 
Who  going  inland  ever  more  and  more, 
And  being  left  quite  alone,  at  last  did  find 
A  lonely  valley  sheltered  from  the  wind, 
Wherein,  amidst  an  ancient  cypress  wood, 
A  long-deserted  ruined  castle  stood.      21 

The  wood,  once  ordered  in  fair  grove  and 

glade, 
With  gardens  overlooked  by  terraces, 
And     marble-paved     pools     for    pleasure 

made. 
Was  tangled  now,  and  choked  with  fallen 

trees ; 
And  he  who  went  there,  with  but  little 

ease 
Must  stumble  by  the  stream's  side,  once 

made  meet 
For    tender    women's    dainty    wandering 

feet. 

I  fain.     Desirous. 


The  raven's  croak,  the  low  wind  choked 
and  drear, 

The  bafHed  stream,  the  gray  wolf's  dole- 
ful cry,  30 

Were  all  the  sounds  that  mariner  could 
hear. 

And  through  the  wood  he  wandered  pain- 
fully; 

But  as  unto  the  house  he  drew  anigh, 

The  pillars  of  a  ruined  shrine  he  saw. 

The  once  fair  temple  of  a  fallen  law.* 

No  image  was  there  left  behind  to  tell 
Before  whose  face  the  knees  of  men  had 

bowed ; 
An  altar  of  black  stone,  of  old  wrought 

well, 
Alone  beneath  a  ruined  roof  now  showed 
The  goal  whereto  the  folk  were  wont  to 

crowd,  40 

Seeking  for  things  forgotten  long  ago, 
Praying  for  heads  long  ages  laid  a-low. 

Close  to  the  temple  was  the  castle-gate; 
Doorless  and  crumbling;  there  our  fellow 

turned, 
Trembling  indeed  at  what  might  chance 

to  wait 
The  prey  entrapped,  yet  with  a  heart  that 

burned 
To  know  the  most  of  what  might  there  be 

learned, 
And  hoping  somewhat  too,  amid  his  fear, 
To  light  on  such  things  as  all  men  bold 

dear. 

Noble  the  house  was,  nor  seemed  built  for 

war,  so 

But  rather  like  the  work  of  other  days, 
When  men,  in  better  peace  than  now  they 

are. 
Had  leisure  on  the  world  around  to  gaze, 
And  noted  well  the  past  times'  changing 

ways ; 
And  fair  with  sculptured  stories  it  was 

wrought. 
By  lapse  of  time  unto  dim  ruin  brought. 

Now  as  he  looked  about  on  all  these 
things. 

And  strove  to  read  the  moldering  his- 
tories, 

Above  the  door  an  image  with  wide 
wings, 

Whose  unclad  limbs  a  serpent  seemed  to 
seize,  60 

He  dimly  saw,  although  the  western  breeze, 

2  law.     Religion. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


131 


And  years   of   biting   frost   and   washing 

rain, 
Had    made   the   carver's    labor   well-nigh 

vain. 

But  this,  though  perished  sore,  and  worn 

away, 
He  noted  well,  because  it  seemed  to  be, 
After  the  fashion  of  another  day. 
Some  great  man's  badge  of  war,  or  ar- 
mory; 
And  round  it  a  carved  wreath  he  seemed 

to  see : 
But  taking  note  of  these  things,  at  the  last 
The  mariner  beneath  the  gateway  passed. 

And   there   a   lovely   cloistered   court   he 

found,  71 

A  fountain  in  the  midst  o'erthrown  and 

dry, 
And  in  the  cloister  briers  twining  round 
The     slender     shafts ;     the     wondrous 

imagery 
Outworn  by  more  than  many  years  gone 

by; 
Because  the  country  people,  in  their  fear 
Of    wizardry,    had    wrought    destruction 

here; 

And  piteously  these  fair  things  had  been 
maimed; 

There  stood  great  Jove,  lacking  his  head 
of  might; 

Here  was  the  archer,  swift  Apollo,  lamed; 

The  shapely  limbs  of  Venus  hid  from 
sight  81 

By  weeds  and  shards  ;i  Diana's  ankles 
light 

Bound  with  the  cable  of  some  coasting 
ship ; 

And  rusty  nails  through  Helen's  madden- 
ing lip. 

Therefrom  unto  the  chambers  did  he  pass. 
And  found  them  fair  still,  midst  of  their 

decay. 
Though  in  them  now  no  sign  of  man  there 

was, 
And    everything    but    stone    had    passed 

away 
That  made  them  lovely  in  that  vanished 

day; 
Nay,    the    mere    walls    themselves    would 

soon  be  gone,  90 

And  naught  be  left  but  heaps  of  molder- 

ing  stone. 

I   shards.     Fragments. 


But  he,  when  all  the  place  he  had  gone 

o'er. 
And  with  much  trouble  clomb  the  broken 

stair. 
And    from    the    topmost    turret    seen    the 

shore 
And  his  good  ship   drawn  up   at  anchor 

there, 
Came  down  again,  and  found  a  crj^pt  most 

fair 
Built    wonderfully    beneath    the    greatest 

hall, 
And  there  he  saw  a  door  within  the  wall. 

Well-hinged,  close  shut ;  nor  was  there  in 

that  place 
Another  on  its  hinges ;  therefore  he   100 
Stood    there    and    pondered    for    a    little 

space. 
And  thought,  "Perchance  some  marvel  I 

shall  see, 
For  surely  here  some  dweller  there  must 

be. 
Because  this  door  seems  whole,  and  new, 

and   sound. 
While  naught  but  ruin  I  can  see  around." 

So  with  that  word,   moved  by  a   strong 

desire. 
He   tried    the   hasp,   that   yielded   to   his 

hand. 
And  in  a  strange  place,  lit  as  by  a  fire 
Unseen  but  near,  he  presently  did  stand; 
And  by  an  odorous  breeze  his   face  was 

fanned,  no 

As    though    in    some    Arabian    plain    he 

stood, 
Anigh  the  border  of  a  spice-tree  wood. 

He  moved  not  for  awhile,  but  looking 
round, 

He  wondered  much  to  see  the  place  so 
fair. 

Because,  unlike  the  castle  above  ground. 

No  pillager  or  wrecker  had  been  there ; 

It  seemed  that  time  had  passed  on  other- 
where. 

Nor  laid  a  finger  on  this  hidden  place. 

Rich  with  the  wealth  of  some  forgotten 
race. 

With  hangings,  fresh  as  when  they  left 
the  loom,  120 

The  walls  were  hung  a  space  above  the 
head ; 

Slim  ivory  chairs  were  set  about  tlie  room. 

And  in  one  corner  was  a  dainty  bed, 


132 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


That  seemed  for  some  fair  queen  ap- 
pareled ; 

And  marble  was  the  worst  stone  of  the 
floor, 

That  with  rich  Indian  webs  was  covered 
o'er. 

The  wanderer  trembled  when  he  saw  all 

this, 
Because    he    deemed    by    magic    it    was 

wrought ; 
Yet  in  his  heart  a  longing  for  some  bliss, 
Whereof   the   hard   and   changing   world 

knows  naught,  130 

Arose   and   urged   him   on,   and    dimmed 

the  thought 
That  there  perchance  some  devil  lurked 

to  slay 
The  heedless  wanderer  from  the  light  of 

day. 

Over  against  him  was  another  door 
Set  in  the  wall ;  so,  casting  fear  aside, 
With  hurried  steps  he  crossed  the  varied 

floor. 
And  there  again  the  silver  latch  he  tried 
And   with   no  pain  the   door   he   opened 

wide, 
And  entering  the  new  chamber  cautiously 
The  glory  of  great  heaps  of  gold  could 

see.  140 

Upon  the  floor  uncounted  medals  lay, 

Like  things  of  little  value;  here  and 
there 

Stood  golden  caldrons,  that  might  well 
outweigh 

The  biggest  midst  an  emperor's  copper- 
ware. 

And  golden  cups  were  set  on  tables  fair. 

Themselves  of  gold;  and  in  all  hollow 
things 

Were  stored  great  gems,  worthy  the 
crowns  of  kings. 

The  walls  and  roof  with  gold  were  over- 
laid, 

And  precious  raiment  from  the  wall  hung 
down ; 

The  fall  of  kings  that  treasure  might  have 
stayed,  150 

Or  gained  some  longing  conqueror  great 
renown. 

Or  built  again  some  god-destroyed  old 
town; 

What  wonder,  if  this  plunderer  of  the  sea 

Stood  gazing  at  it  long  and  dizzily? 


But   at   the  last   his   troubled   eyes   and 

dazed 
He  lifted  from  the  glory  of  that  gold, 
And     then     the     image,     that     well-nigh 

erased 
Over  the  castle-gate  he  did  behold. 
Above   a   door   well   wrought   in   colored 

gold 
Again  he  saw ;  a  naked  girl  with  wings 
Enfolded  in  a  serpent's  scaly  rings.      161 

And  even  as  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  it 

A  woman's  voice  came  from  the  other 
side. 

And  through  his  heart  strange  hopes  be- 
gan to  flit 

That  in  some  wondrous  land  he  might 
abide 

Not  dying,  master  of  a  deathless  bride. 

So  o'er  the  gold  he  scarcely  now  could 
see 

He  went,  and  passed  this  last  door 
eagerly. 

Then  in  a  room  he  stood  wherein  there 

was 
A  marble  bath,   whose  brimming  water 

yet  170 

Was    scarcely    still;    a    vessel    of    green 

glass 
Half  full  of  odorous  ointment  was  there 

set 
Upon  the  topmost  step  that  still  was  wet. 
And  jeweled  shoes  and   women's   dainty 

geari 
Lay  cast  upon  the  varied  pavement  near. 

In  one  quick  glance  these  things  his  eyes 
did  see. 

But  speedily  they  turned  round  to  be- 
hold 

Another  sight,  for  throned  on  ivory 

There  sat  a  girl,  whose  dripping  tresses 
rolled 

On  to  the  floor  in  waves  of  gleaming  gold. 

Cast  back  from  such  a  form  as,  erewhile 
shown  181 

To  one  poor  shepherd,  lighted  up  Troy 
town.2 

Naked  she  was,  the  kisses  of  her  feet 
Upon  the  floor  a  dying  path  had  made 
From  the  full  bath  into  her  ivory  seat ; 
In  her  right  hand,  upon  her  bosom  laid, 
She  held  a  golden  comb,  a  mirror  weighed 

1  gear.     Clothing. 

2  That  is,  the  beauty  of  Helen,  which  caused 
the  Trojan  war. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


133 


Her  left  hand  down,  aback  her  fair  head 

lay 
Dreaming  awake  of  some  long  vanished 

day. 


Her  eyes  were  shut,  but  she  seemed  not 

to  sleep,  190 

Her  lips  were  murmuring  things  unheard 

and  low. 
Or    sometimes    twitched    as    though    she 

needs  must  weep. 
Though  from  her  eyes  the  tears  refused 

to  flow, 
And  oft  with  heavenly  red  her  cheek  did 

glow. 
As   if  remembrance  of   some   half -sweet 

shame 
Across  the  web  of  many  memories  came. 

There  stood  the  man,  scarce  daring  to 
draw  breath 

For  fear  the  lovely  sight  should  fade 
away; 

Forgetting  heaven,  forgetting  life  and 
death, 

Trembling  for  fear  lest  something  he 
should  say  200 

Unwitting,  lest  some  sob  should  yet  be- 
tray 

His  presence  there,  for  to  his  eager  eyes 

Already  did  the  tears  begin  to  rise. 

But  as  he  gazed,  she  moved,  and  with  a 

sigh 
Bent  forward,  dropping  down  her  golden 

head; 
"Alas,  alas !  another  day  gone  by. 
Another  day  and  no  soul  come,"  she  said ; 
"Another  year,  and  still  I  am  not  dead !" 
And  with  that  word  once  more  her  head 

she  raised, 
And  on  the  trembling  man  with  great  eyes 

gazed.  210 

Then  he  imploring  hands  to  her  did  reach. 
And    toward    her    very    slowly    'gan    to 

move 
And  with  wet  eyes  her  pity  did  beseech. 
And,  seeing  her  about  to  speak,  he  strove 
From   trembling   lips   to   utter    words    of 

love; 
But  with  a  look  she  stayed  his  doubtful 

feet, 
And  made  sweet  music  as  their  eyes  did 

meet. 


For  now  she  spoke  in  gentle  voice  and 

clear. 
Using   the    Greek   tongue    that    he    knew 

full  well; 
"What    man    art    thou,    that    thus    hast 

wandered  here.  220 

And   found  this  lonely  chamber  where  I 

dwell? 
Beware,  beware !  for  I  have  many  a  spell ; 
If  greed  of  power  and  gold  have  led  thee 

on, 
Not   lightly   shall   this   untold   wealth   be 

won. 

"But  if  thou  com'st  here,  knowing  of  my 

tale. 
In  hope  to  bear  away  my  body  fair. 
Stout  must  thine  heart  be,  nor  shall  that 

avail 
If  thou  a  wicked  soul  in  thee  dost  bear; 
So  once  again  I  bid  thee  to  beware. 
Because    no    base    man    things    like    this 

may  see,  230 

And  live  thereafter  long  and  happily." 

"Lady,"    he    said,    "in    Florence    is    my 

home. 
And  in  my  city  noble  is  my  name ; 
Neither  on  peddling  voyage  am  I  come, 
But,  like  my  fathers,  bent  to  gather  fame ; 
And  though   thy    face  has   set   my   heart 

aflame 
Yet  of  thy  story  nothing  do  I  know, 
But  here  have  wandered  heedlessly  enow. 

"But  since  the  sight  of  thee  my  eyes  did 

bless. 
What  can  I  be  but  thine?  what  wouldst 

thou  have?  240 

From  those  thy  words,  I  deem  from  some 

distress 
By  deeds  of  mine  thy  dear  life  I  might 

save ; 
O  then,  delay  not!  if  one  ever  gave 
His  life  to  any,  mine  I  give  to  thee; 
Come,  tell  me  what  the  price  of  love  must 

be? 

"Swift  death,  to  be  with  thee  a  day  and 

night 
And  with  the  earliest  dawning  to  be  slain? 
Or  better,  a  long  year  of  great  delight. 
And  many  years  of  misery  and  pain? 
Or  worse,  and  this  poor  hour  for  all  my 

gain  ?  250 

A  sorry  merchant  am  I  on  this  day, 
E'en  as  thou  wiliest  so  must  I  obey." 


134 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


She    said,    "What    brave   words!    naught 

divine  am  I, 
But  an  unhappy  and  unheard-of  maid 
Compelled  by  evil  fate  and  destiny 
To  live,  who  long  ago  should  have  been 

laid 
Under  the  earth  within  the  cypress  shade. 
Hearken   awhile,   and   quickly   shalt    thou 

know 
What  deed  I  pray  thee  to  accomplish  now. 

"God  grant  indeed  thy  words  are  not  for 
naught !  260 

Then  shalt  thou  save  me,  since  for  many 
a  day 

To  such  a  dreadful  life  I  have  been 
brought : 

Nor  will  I  spare  with  all  my  heart  to  pay 

What  man  soever  takes  my  grief  away; 

Ah !  I  will  love  thee,  if  thou  lovest  me 

But  well  enough  my  savior  now  to  be. 

"My  father  lived  a  many  years  agone 
Lord  of  this  land,  master  of  all  cunning,* 
Who   ruddy   gold   could   draw    from   out 

gray  stone. 
And   gather   wealth    from   many   an   un- 

couth^  thing;  270 

He  made  the  wilderness  rejoice  and  sing, 
And  such  a  leech^  he  was  that  none  could 

say 
Without  his  word  what  soul  should  pass 

away. 

"Unto  Diana  such  a  gift  he  gave. 
Goddess  above,  below,  and  on  the  earth, 
That  I  should  be  her  virgin  and  her  slave 
From  the  first  hour  of  my  most  wretched 

birth ; 
Therefore  my  life  had  known  but  little 

mirth 
When  I  had  come  unto  my  twentieth  year 
And    the    last    time    of    hallowing    drew 

anear.  280 

"So  in  her  temple  had  I  lived  and  died 
And  all  would  long  ago  have  passed  away, 
But  ere  that  time  came,  did  strange  things 

betide. 
Whereby  I  am  alive  unto  this  day; 
Alas,  the  bitter  words  that  I  must  say! 
Ah!  can  I  bring  my  wretched  tongue  to 

tell 
How  I  was  brought  unto  this  fearful  hell? 

I  cunning.     Knowledge    (here  accented   on   the 
second  syllable). 

3  uncouth.     Strange. 
3  leech.     Physician. 


"A   queen   I   was,   what   gods   I   knew   I 

loved. 
And  nothing  evil  was  there  in  my  thought. 
And  yet  by  love  my  wretched  heart  was 

moved  290 

Until  to  utter  ruin  I  was  brought ! 
Alas  I  thou  sayest  our  gods  were  vain  and 

naught ; 
Wait,  wait,  till  thou  hast  heard  this  tale 

of  mine, 
Then   shalt  thou  think  them  devilish  or 

divine. 

"Hearken !  in  spite  of  father  and  of  vow 
I  loved  a  man ;  but  for  that  sin  I  think 
Men    had*    forgiven    me — yea,    yea,    even 

thou; 
But   from  the  gods  the  full  cup  must  I 

drink. 
And  into  misery  unheard-of  sink, 
Tormented,   when   their   own   names   are 

forgot,  300 

And  men  must  doubt  if  they  e'er  lived  or 

not. 

"Glorious  my  lover  was  unto  my  sight. 
Most  beautiful, — of  love  we  grew  so  fain 
That  we  at  least  agreed,  that  on  a  night 
We  should  be  happy,  but  that^  he  were 

slain 
Or  shut  in  hold;  and  neither  joy  nor  pain 
Should   else    forbid   that   hoped-for   time 

to  be; 
So  came  the  night  that  made  a  wretch  of 


"Ah!  well  do  I  remember  all  that  night, 
When  through  the  window  shone  the  orb 

of  June,  310 

And  by  the  bed  flickered  the  taper's  light, 
Whereby  I  trembled,  gazing  at  the  moon : 
Ah  me !  the  meeting  that  we  had,  when 

soon 
Into  his  strong,  well-trusted  arms  I  fell. 
And  many  a  sorrow  we  began  to  tell. 

"Ah  me!  what  parting  on  that  night  wc 

had! 
I  think  the  story  of  my  great  despair 
A  little  while  might  merry  folk  make  sad; 
For,  as  he  swept  away  my  yellow  hair 
To    make    my    shoulder    and    my   bosom 

bare,  320 

I  raised  mine  eyes,  and  shuddering  could 

behold 
A  shadow  cast  upon  the  bed  of  gold : 

4  had.     Would  have. 

5  but  that.     Unless. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


135 


"Then  suddenly  was  quenched  my  hot 
desire 

And  he  untwined  his  arms;  the  moon  so 
pale 

A  while  ago,  seemed  changed  to  blood 
and  fire, 

And  yet  my  limbs  beneath  me  did  not  fail, 

And  neither  had  I  strength  to  cry  or 
wail, 

But  stood  there  helpless,  bare,  and  shiv- 
ering. 

With  staring  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the 
thing. 

"Because  the   shade   that  on  the  bed  of 

gold  330 

The    changed    and    dreadful    moon    was 

throwing  down 
Was  of  Diana,  whom  I  did  behold, 
With    knotted    hair,    and    shining   girt-up 

gown. 
And  on   the   high   white   brow,   a   deadly 

frown 
Bent  upon  us,  who  stood  scarce  drawing 

breath, 
Striving  to  meet  the  horrible  sure  death. 

"No  word  at  all  the  dreadful  goddess  said, 
But  soon  across  my  feet  my  lover  lay. 
And    well    indeed    I    knew    that    he    was 

dead; 
And  would  that  I  had  died  on  that  same 
day !  340 

For  in  a  while  the  image  turned  away, 
And  without  words   my  doom   I   under- 
stood. 
And    felt    a    horror    change    my    human 
blood. 

"And  there  I  fell,  and  on  the  floor  I  lay 
By  the  dead  man,  till  daylight  came  on 

me. 
And  not  a  word  thenceforward  could   I 

say 
For  three  years;  till  of  grief  and  misery, 
The  lingering  pest,  the  cruel  enemy. 
My   father  and  his   folk  were  dead   and 

gone. 
And  in  this  castle  I  was  left  alone :      350 

"And  then  the  doom  foreseen  upon  me 

fell. 
For  Queen  Diana  did  my  body  change 
Into    a    fork-tongued    dragon,    flesh    and 

fell,i 

I  fell.     Skin. 


And    through    the    island    nightly    do    I 

range, 
Or  in  the  green  sea  mate  with  monsters 

strange. 
When  in  the  middle  of  the  moonlit  night 
The  sleepy  mariner  I  do  affright. 

"But  all  day  long  upon  this  gold  I  lie 
Within   this   place,   where   never   mason's 

hand 
Smote  trowel  on  the  marble  noisily;    360 
Drowsy  I  lie,  no  folk  at  my  command. 
Who   once   was   called   the   Lady   of  the 

Land; 
Who  might  have  bought  a  kingdom  with 

a  kiss. 
Yea,  half  the  world  with  such  a  sight  as 

this." 

And  therewithal,  with  rosy  fingers  light. 
Backward    her    heavy-hanging    hair    she 

threw. 
To  give  her  naked  beauty  more  to  sight; 
But   when,    forgetting   all   the   things   he 

knew. 
Maddened   with   love   unto  the   prize   he 

drew. 
She    cried,    "Nay,    wait!    for    wherefore 

wilt  thou  die,  370 

Why  should  we  not  be  happy,  thou  and  I  ? 

"Wilt  thou  not  save  me?  once  in  every 

year 
This    rightful    form    of    mine    that    thou 

dost  see 
By  favor  of  the  goddess  have  I  here 
From  sunrise  unto  sunset  given  me. 
That    some    brave    man    may    end    my 

misery. 
And  thou — art  thou  not  brave?  can  thy 

heart  fail, 
Whose  eyes  e'en  now  are  weeping  at  my 

tale? 

"Then  listen !  when  this  day  is  overpast, 
A  fearful  monster  shall  I  be  again,  380 
And  thou  may'st  be  my  savior  at  the  last; 
Unless,  once  more,  thy  words  are  naught 

and  vain. 
If  thou  of  love  and  sovereignty  art  fain. 
Come   thou   next   morn,   and   when   thou 

seest  here 
A  hideous  dragon,  have  thereof  no  fear. 


136 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"But  take  the  loathsome  head  up  in  thine 
hands, 

And  kiss  it,  and  be  master  presently 

Of  twice  the  wealth  that  is  in  all  the 
lands 

From  Cathayi  to  the  head  of  Italy; 

And  master  also,  if  it  pleaseth  thee,      390 

Of  all  thou  praisest  as  so  fresh  and 
bright, 

Of  what  thou  callest  crown  of  all  de- 
light. 

"Ah !  with  what  joy  then  shall  I  see  again 
The  sunlight  on  the  green  grass  and  the 

trees. 
And  hear  the  clatter  of  the  summer  rain, 
And  see  the  joyous  folks  beyond  the  seas. 
Ah,  me !  to  hold  my  child  upon  my  knees. 
After  the  weeping  of  unkindly  tears, 
And  all  the  wrongs  of  these  four  hun- 
dred years. 

"Go  now,  go  quick!  leave  this  gray  heap 

of  stone;  400 

And  from  thy  glad  heart  think  upon  thy 

way. 
How    I    shall    love   thee — yea,   love  thee 

alone. 
That  bringest  me  from  dark  death  unto 

day; 
For  this  shall  be  thy  wages  and  thy  pay; 
Unheard-of    wealth,    unheard-of    love    is 

near. 
If    thou    hast    heart    a    little    dread    to 

bear."  .  .  . 

Then  at  the  doorway  where  her  rosy  heel 
Had  glanced  and  vanished,  he  awhile  did 

stare, 
And  still  upon  his  hand  he  seemed  to  feel 
The  varying  kisses  of  her  fingers  fair; 
Then  turned  he  toward  the  dreary  crypt 

and  bare,  411 

And  dizzily  throughout  the  castle  passed, 
Till  by  the  ruined  fane^  he  stood  at  last. 

Then  weighing  still  the  gem  within  his 
hand, 

He  stumbled  backward  through  the  cy- 
press wood. 

Thinking  the  while  of  some  strange  lovely 
land. 

Where  all  his  life  should  be  most  fair 
and  good 

Till  on  the  valley's  wall  of  hills  he  stood, 

I  Cathay.     Asia.  ' 
a  fane.     Temple. 


And  slowly  thence  passed  down  unto  the 

bay 
Red  with  the  death  of  that  bewildering 

day.  420 

The  next  day  came,  and  he,  who  all  the 

night 
Had    ceaselessly    been    turning    in    his 

bed. 
Arose  and  clad  himself  in  armor  bright, 
And  many  a  danger  he  remembered ; 
Storming  of   towns,   long  sieges    full   of 

dread, 
That  with  renown  his   heart  had   borne 

him  through. 
And  this  thing  seemed  a  little  thing  to  do. 

So    on    he    went,    and    on    the    way    he 

thought 
Of  all  the  glorious  things  of  yesterday, 
Naught  of  the  price  whereat  they  must 

be  bought,  430 

But  ever  to  himself  did  softly  say, 
"No  roaming  now,   my  wars  are  passed 

away; 
No  long  dull  days  devoid  of  happiness, 
When  such  a  love  my  yearning  heart  shall 

bless." 

Thus  to  the  castle  did  he  come  at  last. 
But  when  unto  the  gateway  he  drew  near, 
And     underneath     its     ruined     archway 

passed 
Into  the   court,   a  strange  noise  did  he 

hear, 
And  through  his  heart  there  shot  a  pang 

of  fear;  ^ 

Trembling,    he    gat    his    sword    into    his 

hand,  440 

And   midmost  of   the   cloisters  took   his 

stand. 

But  for  a  while  that  unknown  noise  in- 
creased, 

A  rattling,  that  with  strident  roars  did 
blend, 

And  whining  moans;  but  suddenly  it 
ceased, — 

A  fearful  thing  stood  at  the  cloister's 
end. 

And  eyed  him  for  a  while,  then  'gan  to 
wend 

Adown   the  cloisters,  and  began   again 

That  rattling,  and  the  moan  like  fiends 
in  pain. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


137 


And  as  it  came  on  towards  him,  with  its 
teeth 

The  body  of  a  slain  goat  did  it  tear,    450 

The  blood  whereof  in  its  hot  jaws  did 
seethe, 

And  on  its  tongue  he  saw  the  smoking 
hair; 

Then  his  heart  sank,  and  standing  trem- 
bling there, 

Throughout  his  mind  wild  thoughts  and 
fearful  ran, 

"Some  fiend  she  was,"  he  said,  "the  bane^ 
of  man." 

Yet  he  abode  her  still,  although  his  blood 
Curdled   within  him :   the   thing   dropped 

the  goat, 
And  creeping  on,  came  close  to  where  he 

stood. 
And  raised  its  head  to  him,  and  wrinkled 

throat ; 
Then    he    cried    out    and    wildly    at    her 

smote,  460 

Shutting  his  eyes,  and  turned,  and   from 

the  place 
Ran  swiftly,  with  a  white  and  ghastly  face. 

But  little  things  rough  stones  and  tree- 
trunks  seemed. 

And  if  he  fell,  he  rose  and  ran  on  still; 

No  more  he  felt  his  hurts  than  if  he 
dreamed. 

He  made  no  stay  for  valley  or  steep  hill. 

Heedless  he  dashed  through  many  a 
foaming  rill, 

Until  he  came  unto  the  ship  at  last 

And  with  no  word  into  the  deep  hold 
passed. 

Meanwhile  the  dragon,  seeing  him  clean 
gone,  470 

Followed  him  not,  but  crying  horribly. 
Caught   up   within  her  jaws   a  block  of 

stone 
And  ground  it  into  powder,  then  turned  she, 
With  cries  that  folk  could  hear   far  out 

at  sea, 
And  reached  the  treasure  set  apart  of  old. 
To  brood  above  the  hidden  heaps  of  gold. 

Yet  was  she  seen  again  on  many  a  day 
By  some  half-waking  mariner,  or  heard. 
Playing  amid  the  ripples  of  the  bay. 
Or  on  the  hills,  making  all  things  afeard. 
Or  in  the  wood  that  did  that  castle  gird; 
But  never  any  man  again  durst  go  482 
To  seek  her  woman's  form,  and  end  her 


woe. 
I  bane. 


Destroyer. 


As  for  the  man,  who  knows  what  things 

he  bore? 
What    mournful    faces    peopled    the    sad 

night. 
What  waitings  vexed  him  with  reproaches 

sore. 
What  images  of  that  nigh-gained  delight ! 
What  dreamed  caresses  from  soft  hands 

and  white. 
Turning  to  horrors  ere  they  reached  the 

best; 
What   struggles  vain,  what  shame,  what 

huge  unrest?  490 

No  man  he  knew,  three  days  he  lay  and 

raved. 
And  cried  for  death,  until  a  lethargy 
Fell  on  him,  and  his  fellows  thought  him 

saved ; 
But  on  the  third  night  he  awoke  to  die ; 
And  at   Byzantium  doth  his   body   lie 
Between     two     blossoming     pomegranate 

trees. 
Within  the  churchyard  of  the  Genoese. 

(1868) 


GARETH    AND    LYNETTE 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King,  from  which 
this  and  the  two  following  poems  are  taken,  tell 
the  story  of  King  Arthur,  whom  medieval  ro- 
mance celebrates  as  the  hero-king  of  early  Brit- 
ain. Throughout  the  poems  there  is  a  blending 
of  ordinary  traditional  story  with  mystical,  mi- 
raculous elements,  and  these  elements  Tennyson 
used  to  s>'mbolize  moral  and  spiritual  truths. 
Thus  Arthur  is,  in  one  aspect  of  the  story,  a 
normal  human  king,  the  son  of  Uther  Pendragon, 
and  in  another  aspect  a  person  of  miraculous 
birth,  come  to  set  up  a  kingdom  of  purity  and 
righteousness  in  Britain,  especially  through  the 
agency  of  the  ideal  knights  of  the  Round  Table. 
The  opposition  to  him  on  the  part  of  the  heathen 
and  of  all  evil  men,  Tennyson  explains  as  sym- 
bolic of  "sense  at  war  with  soul," — "sense" 
meaning  the  low  desires  of  the  animal  or  "beast" 
element  in  man.  The  present  poem  is  an  episode 
representative  of  the  brightest  days  of  the  Ar- 
thurian reign,  and  Gareth  is  typical  of  youth 
winning  its  spurs  of  knighthood.  In  particular, 
the  struggle  against  the  evil  knights  of  Morn- 
ing, Noon,  and  Evening  (see  lines  619  and  1174) 
symbolizes  the  overcoming  of  the  temptations  of 
youth,  middle  life,  and  old  age.] 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 
And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful  spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.^     A  slender-shafted 

pine 
Lost    footing,    fell,   and   so    was   whirled 

away. 
1  spate.     Swollen  river. 


138 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth,  "as  a 

false  knight 
Or  evil  king  before  my  lance,  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use — O  senseless  cataract, 
Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy — 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold 

snows 
And  mine  is  living  blood :  thou  dost  His 

will,  10 

The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I  that 

know, 
Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good  moth- 
er's hall 
Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prisoned,  and  kept  and  coaxed  and  whis- 
tled  to— 
Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a 

child ! 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me! 
A    worse    were    better;    yet    no    worse 

would  I. 
Heaven  yield  ^  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 

force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 

prayer. 
Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep  20 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 

swoop 
Down   upon    all   things    base,   and    dash 

them  dead, 
A    knight    of    Arthur,    working    out    his 

will. 
To    cleanse    the    world.      Why,    Gawain, 

when  he  came 
With  Modred  hither  in  the  summertime,^ 
Asked   me   to  tilt   with   him,   the   proven 

knight. 
Modred,   for  want  of  worthier,   was  the 

judge. 
Then  I   so  shook  him  in  the   saddle,  he 

said, 
"Thou    hast   half   prevail'd   against    me," 

said  so — he —  30 

Tho'    Modred    biting   his    thin    lips    was 

mute. 
For  he  is  always  sullen:  what  care  I?" 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round 

her  chair 
Asked,    "Mother,   tho'   ye  count   me   still 

the  child. 
Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child?"   She 

laughed, 
"Thou   art  but  a  wild-goose   to  question 

it." 

1  yield.     Reward. 

2  Gawain  and  Modred  were  brothers  of  Gareth. 


"Then,  mother,  an^  ye  love  the  child,"  he 
said, 

"Being  a  goose  and  rather  tame  than 
wild. 

Hear  the  child's  story."  "Yea,  my  well- 
beloved. 

An  'twere  but  of  the  goose  and  golden 
eggs."  40 

And  Gareth  answered  her  with  kin- 
dling eyes, 

"Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg  of 
mine 

Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay; 

For  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 

Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a  palm 

As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours.* 

And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the 
palm 

A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 

The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft,  and 
thought 

'An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand  upon 
it,  50 

Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  ^  of 
kings.* 

But  ever  when  he  reached  a  hand  to 
climb, 

One,  that  had  loved  him  from  his  child- 
hood, caught 

And  stayed  him,  'Climb  not  lest  thou 
break  thy  neck, 

I  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the 
boy. 

Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor  brake 
his  neck. 

But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for  it, 

And  passed  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risked  himself 

and  climbed. 
And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure  to 

him."  60 

And  Gareth  answered  her  with  kindling 

eyes, 
"Gold?   said   I   gold? — ay   then,   why   he, 

or  she. 
Or  whosoe'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured— /larf  the  thing  I  spake  of 

been 
Mere  gold— but  this  was  all  of  that  true 

steel, 

3  an.     If. 

4  Book  of  Hours.     A  prayer-book   (often  beau- 
tifully illuminated). 

5  leash  of.     Three  (from  "a  leash  of  hounds"). 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


139 


WheTcof  they  forged  the  brand^^  Excali- 

bur, 
And    lightnings    played    about    it    in    the 

storm, 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at  it, 
And   there   were   cries   and   clashings    in 

the  nest, 
That  sent  him  from  his  senses : — let  me 

go."  70 

Then    Bellicent   bemoaned   herself    and 

said, 
"Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness? 
Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the  hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all   but  smouldered 

out! 
For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the  King 
He    fought    against    him    in   the    Barons' 

war, 
And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  territory, 
His  age   hath   slowly   drooped,   and   now 

lies  there 
A  yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburiable. 
No  more;  nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor  speaks, 

nor  knows.  80 

And   both   thy  brethren  are   in   Arthur's 

hall. 
Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full  love 
I  feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a  love : 
Stay   therefore   thou;   red   berries    charm 

the  bird. 
And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts,  the 

wars. 
Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor  pang 
Of    wrenched    or   broken   limb — an   often 

chance 
In  those  brain-stunning  shocks,  and  tour- 
ney-falls, 
Frights  to  my  heart ;  but  stay :  follow  the 

deer 
By    these   tall    firs    and    our    fast-falling 

burns ;2  90 

So  make  thy  manhood    mightier  day  by 

day; 
Sweet  is  the  chase :  and  I  will  seek  thee 

out 
Some    comfortable    bride    and    fair,    to 

grace 
Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my  prone  ^ 

year. 
Till   falling  into  Lot's   forgetfulness 
I  know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  anything. 
Stay,  my  best  son !  ye  are  yet  more  boy 

than  man." 

I  brand.  Sword. 
3  burns.  Brooks. 
3  prone.     Falling. 


Then  Gareth,  "An  ye  hold  me  yet  for 
child. 

Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the  child. 

For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  King,  like 
ours,  100 

The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and  mar- 
riageable. 

Asked  for  a  bride ;  and  thereupon  the 
King 

Set  two  before  him.  One  was  fair, 
strong,  armed — 

But  to  be  won  by  force — and  many  men 

Desired  her;  one,  good  lack,  no  man 
desired. 

And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the 
King: 

That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he 
needs 

Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man  de- 
sired, 

A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so 
vile. 

That  evermore  she  longed  to  hide  her- 
self, no 

Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye — 

Yea — some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they  died 
of  her. 

And  one — they  called  her  Fame — and  one 
— O  Mother, 

How  can  ye  keep  me  tethered  to  you — 
Shame. 

Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I 
do. 

Follow  the  deer?  follow  the  Christ,  the 
King, 

Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong,  follow 
the  King — 

Else,  wherefore  born?" 

To  whom  the  mother  said. 
"Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who  deem 

him  not. 
Or    will    not    deem    him,    wholly    proven 

King —  120 

Albeit    in    mine   own    heart    I   knew    him 

King, 
When   I    was    frequent,  with   him   in   my 

youth. 
And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  and  doubted 

him 
No  more  than  he,  himself;  but  felt  him 

mine, 
Of  closest  kin  to  me:  yet — wilt  thou  leave 
Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk  thine 

all. 
Life,  limbs,   for  one   that   is   not  proven 

King? 


140 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round  his 

birth 
Hath  lifted  but  a  little.    Stay,  sweet  son." 

And  Gareth  answered  quickly,  "Not  an 

hour,  130 

So  that  ye  yield  me — I  will  walk  thro'  fire, 
Mother,  to  gain  it — your  full  leave  to  go. 
Not  proven,  who  swept  the  dust  of  ruined 

Rome 
From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm,  and 

crushed 
The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people  free? 
Who  should  be  King  save  him  who  makes 

us  free?" 

So    when    the    Queen,    who   long   had 

sought  in  vain 
To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which  he 

grew. 
Found  her  son's  will  unwaveringly  one, 
She    answered    craftily,    "Will    ye    walk 

thro'  fire?  140 

Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed  the 

smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must :  only  one  proof. 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 

knight. 
Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me, 
Thy  mother, — I  demand." 

And  Gareth  cried, 
"A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay — quick !  the  proof  to  prove  me  to  the 
quick !" 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother,  looking  at 
him, 

"Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to 
Arthur's  hall. 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and 
drinks  150 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves. 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across  the 
bar.i 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth  and 
a  day." 

For  so  the   Queen  believed  that  when 
her  son 
Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 
Low    down    thro'   villain^    kitchen-vassal- 
age, 

1  bar.     Kitchen  counter. 

2  villain.     Low-born. 


Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely- 
proud 

To  pass  thereby;  so  should  he  rest  with 
her. 

Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 
arms.  160 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then  replied, 

"The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in  soul. 

And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.  Thy  son  am 
I, 

And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must  obey. 

I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will; 

For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire 
myself 

To  serve  with  scullions  and  with  kitchen- 
knaves  ; 

Nor  tell  my  name  to  any — no,  not  the 
King." 

Gareth  awhile  lingered.     The  mother's 

eye. 
Full  of  the  wistful   fear  that  he  would 

go,  170 

And   turning  toward  him  whereso'er  he 

turned, 
Perplexed    his   outward   purpose,    till   an 

hour. 
When,  wakened  by  the  wind  which  with 

full  voice 
Swept  bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on  to 

dawn. 
He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That   stilP  had  tended  on  him  from  his 

birth, 
Before   the   wakeful    mother   heard   him, 

went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the 

soil. 
Southward    they    set    their    faces.      The 

birds  made 
Melody   on    branch,   and  melody   in   mid 

air.  180 

The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quickened  into 

green, 
And    the    live    green    had    kindled    into 

flowers, 
For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on  the 
plain 
That     broadened     toward     the     base     of 

Camelot, 
Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 
Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  Royal  mount, 
That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the  field. 
3  still.     Always. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


141 


At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city 
flashed; 

At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half-way- 
down  190 

Pricked  thro'  the  mist ;  at  times  the  great 
gate  shone 

Only,  that  opened  on  the  field  below : 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disappeared. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth  were 

amazed, 
One  crying,  "Let  us  go  no  further,  lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By    fairy    Kings."      The    second    echoed 

him, 
"Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise  man 

at  home 
To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not  the 

King, 
But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland,  200 
Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sorcery 
And    Merlin's   glamour."   Then   the    first 

again, 
"Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere, 
But  all  a  vision." 

Gareth  answered  them 
With  laughter,  swearing  he  had  glamour 

enow 
In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth 

and  hopes. 
To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian  sea ; 
So  pushed  them  all  unwilling  toward  the 

gate. 
And    there    was    no    gate    like    it    under 

heaven. 
For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which  was 

lined  210 

And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood :  all  her  dress 
Wept    from   her   sides   as   water   flowing 

away ; 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 

arms 
Stretched  under  all  the  cornice  and  up- 
held: 
And    drops    of    water    fell    from    either 

hand; 
And  down  from  one  a  sword  was  hung, 

from  one 
A    censer,    either    worn    with    wind    and 

storm ; 
And   o'er    her   breast   floated   the   sacred 

fish; 
And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and  right. 
Were    Arthur's    wars    in    weird    devices 

done,  221 


New    things    and    old    co-twisted,    as    if 

Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately.^  that  men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there;  and  over  all 
High  on  the  top  were  those  three  Queens, 

the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long  a 

space 
Stared    at    the    figures,    that    at    last    it 

seemed 
The  dragon-boughts2  and  elvish  emblem- 

ings 
Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine,  and  curl : 

they  called  230 

To  Gareth,  "Lord,  the  gateway  is  alive." 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixed  his 

eyes 
So  long,  that  ev'n  to  him  they  seemed  to 

move. 
Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  pealed. 
Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three,  to 

whom 
From    out    thereunder    came    an    ancient 

man,3 
Long-bearded,   saying,   "Who   be   ye,   my 

sons  ?" 

Then  Gareth,  "We  be  tillers  of  the  soil, 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to  see 
The  glories  of  our  King :  but  these,  my 

men,  240 

(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the  mist) 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or  come 
From    Fairyland;    and    whether    this    be 

built 
By    magic,     and    by     fairy     Kings     and 

Queens ; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all. 
Or  all  a  vision :  and  this  music  now 
Hath    scared    them    both;    but    tell    thou 

these  the  truth." 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer  play- 
ing on   him 

And  saying.  "Son,  I  have  seen  the  good 
ship  sail 

Keel  upward,  and  mast  downward,  in  the 
heavens,  250 

And   solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air : 

And  here  is  truth;  but  an  it  please  thee 
not, 

I   inveterately.     Endlessly. 

a  boughts.     Bends  (of  the  tails). 

3  Evidently  the  magician  Merlin. 


142 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told  it 
me. 

For  truly,  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy  King 

And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city, 
son; 

They  came  from  out  a  sacred  mountain- 
cleft 

Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp  in 
hand, 

And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 

And,  as  thou  sayest,  it  is  enchanted,  son, 

For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems    260 

Saving  the  King;  tho'  some  there  be  that 
hold 

The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real : 

Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so  thou 
pass 

Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou  be- 
come 

A  thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the 
King 

Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a 
shame 

A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the 
which 

No  man  can  keep;  but,  so  thou  dread  to 
swear. 

Pass  not  Iseneath  this  gateway,  but  abide 

Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 

For  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow      271 

They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city  is 
built 

To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all, 

And  therefore  built  for  ever." 


Gareth  spake 
Angered,    "Old    master,    reverence    thine 

own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and 

seems 
Wellnigh    as    long   as   thou    art   statured 

tall! 
Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that  hath 

been 
To  thee  fair-spoken?" 


But  the  Seer  replied, 
"Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of  the 

Bards  ?  280 

'Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation. 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion'? 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest  me, 
And  all   that  see  thee,    for  thou  art  not 

who 
Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who  thou 

art. 


And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the  King, 
Who   cannot  brook^  the   shadow   of  any 
lie." 

Unmockingly  the  mocker,  ending  here. 
Turned  to  the  right,  and  passed  along  the 

plain ; 
Whom    Gareth    looking   after   said,    "My 
men,  290 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enterprise. 
Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she,  nor  I : 
Well,  we  will  make  amends." 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laughed,  then  entered  with 

his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the  work 
Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days   in 

stone ; 
Which   Merlin's  hand,  the   Mage  at  Ar- 
thur's court. 
Knowing     all     arts,     had     touched,     and 
everywhere  300 

At  Arthur's  ordinance,  tipped  with  lessen- 
ing peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire  to 

heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall :  his  arms 
Clashed;    and    the    sound    was    good    to 

Gareth's  ear. 
And  out   of   bower   and   casement   shyly 

glanced 
Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars  of 

love; 
And  all  about  a  healthful  people  stepped 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending  heard 
A  voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  beheld 
Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted  hall 
The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the  King 
Throned,     and     delivering     doom^  —  and 

looked  no  more —  314 

But   felt  his  young  heart  hammering  in 

his  ears. 
And  thought :  "For  this  half-shadow  of  a 

lie 
The  truthful    King   will   doom   me  when 

I  speak." 
Yet  pressing  on,  tho'  all  in  fear  to  find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 

I  brook.     Endure. 
a  doom.     Judgment. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


143 


Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged  about 
the  throne,  321 

Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King, 

with  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory. 
And  glory  gained,  and  evermore  to  gain. 

Then    came    a    widow    crying    to    the 

King, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King!     Thy  father,  Uther, 

reft 
From  my  dead  lord  a  field  with  violence : 
For  howsoe'er  at  first  he  proffered  gold. 
Yet,    for   the   field    was   pleasant   in   our 

eyes,  330 

We  yielded  not;  and  then  he  reft  us  of  it 
Perforce,    and   left   us   neither   gold   nor 

field." 

Said  Arthur,  "Whether^-  would  ye?  gold 

or  field?" 
To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  "Nay,  my 

lord, 
The  field   was  pleasant  in  my  husband's 

eye." 

And  Arthur :  "Have  thy  pleasant  field 

again, 
And    thrice    the    gold    for    Uther's    use 

thereof, 
According  to  the  years.    No  boon  is  here, 
But  justice,  so  they   say  be  proven  true. 
Accursed,     who     from    the     wrongs    his 

father  did  340 

Would  shape  himself  a  right!" 

And  while  she  passed. 
Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to  him, 
"A  boon.  Sir  King!    Thine  enemy,  King, 

am  I. 
With   thine  own  hand   thou    slewest   my 

dear  lord, 
A  knight  of  Uther  in  the  Barons'  war. 
When   Lot   and   many   another   rose   and 

fought 
Against    thee,    saying   thou    wert    basely 

born. 
I  held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask  thee 

aught. 
Yet  lo !  my  husband's  brother  had  my  son 
Thralled  in   his  castle,   and  hath  starved 

him  dead;  350 

And  standeth  seized^  of  that  inheritance 

1  Whether.     Which. 

2  seized  of.     Possessing. 


Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast  left 

the  son. 
So  tho'  I  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate, 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle  for 

me. 
Kill  the   foul   thief,  and  wreak^   me    for 

my  son." 

Then    strode    a   good   knight    forward, 

crying  to  him, 
"A  boon.  Sir  King!    I  am  her  kinsman,  I. 
Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay  the 

man." 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  and 

cried, 
"A  boon.  Sir  King!  even  that  thou  grant 

her  none,  360 

This  railer,  that  hath  mocked  thee  in  full 

hail- 
None;  or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve 

and  gag." 

But  Arthur,   "We  sit  King,  to  help  the 

wronged 
Thro'  all  our  realm.     The  woman  loves 

her  lord. 
Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves  and 

hates  I 
The  kings  of  old  had  doomed  thee  to  the 

flames, 
Aurelius    Emrys    would    have    scourged 

thee  dead. 
And  Uther  sHt  thy  tongue:  but  get  thee 

hence — 
Lest  that   rough  humor  of  the  kings  of 

old 
Return  upon  me!     Thou  that  art  her  kin, 
Go  likewise;  lay  him  low  and  slay  him 

not,  371 

But   bring  him   here,   that   I    may   judge 

the  right. 
According  to  the  justice  of  the  King: 
Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless  King 
Who  lived  and   died   for  men,   the   man 

shall  die." 

Then   came   in   hall   the   messenger   of 

Mark, 
A  name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 
The   Cornish   king.     In    either    hand    he 

bore 
What  dazzled  all,  and  shone   far-off  as 

shines 
A  field  of  charlock*  in  the  sudden  sun  380 

3  wreak.     Avenge. 

4  charlock.     Mustard. 


144 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


Between  two  sliowers,  a  cloth  of  palest 

gold, 
Which   down  he   laid  before   the  throne, 

and  knelt, 
Delivering,  that  his  lord,  the  vassal  king, 
Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot; 
For    having    heard    that    Arthur    of    his 

grace 
Had    made    his    goodly    cousin,    Tristram, 

knight, 
And,    fori    himself    was    of    the   greater 

state, 
Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him  this  large  honor  all  the 

more; 
So  prayed  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth 

of  gold,  390 

In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth,  to 

rend 
In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 
An    oak-tree    smouldered    there.      "The 

goodly  knight ! 
What!    shall   the    shield   of   Mark   stand 

among  these?" 
For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long 

hall 
A  stately  pile — whereof  along  the   front. 
Some    blazoned,^    some    but    carven,   and 

some  blank, 
There    ran     a    treble    range     of     stony 

shields — 
Rose,    and   high-arching   overbrowed   the 

hearth.  400 

And    under    every    shield    a   knight    was 

named : 
For  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his  hall ; 
When   some   good   knight   had   done   one 

noble  deed, 
His  arms  were  carven  only;  but  if  twain 
His  arms  were  blazoned  also;  but  if  none. 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare,  without  a 

sign 
Saving  the  name  beneath;  and  Gareth  saw 
The  shield  of  Gawain  blazoned  rich  and 

bright, 
And  Modred's  blank  as  death;  and  Ar- 
thur cried 
To   rend    the    cloth   and   cast    it    on   the 

hearth.  410 

"More  like  are  we  to  reave^  him  of  his 

crown 
Than  make  him  knight  because  men  call 

him  king. 

1  jor.     Since. 

2  blazoned.     Bearing  the  heraldic  colors. 

3  reave.     Deprive. 


The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we  stayed 

their  hands 
From    war    among    themselves,    but    left 

them  kings; 
Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merciful, 
Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers,  them 

we  enrolled 
Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our  hall. 
But  Mark  hath  tarnished  the  great  name 

of  king, 
As  Mark  would  sully  the  low   state  of 

churl : 
And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of  gold. 
Return,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from  our 

eyes,  421 

Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in   cloth  of 

lead, 
iSilenced    for   ever  —  craven  —  a   man   of 

plots. 
Craft,   poisonous    counsels,    wayside   am- 

bushings — 
No  fault  of  thine:  let  Kay  the  seneschal 
Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  satis- 
fied- 
Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the  hand 

be  seen!" 

And    many    another    suppliant    crying 

came 
With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast 

and  man. 
And  evermore  a  knight  would  ride  away. 

Last,  Gareth,  leaning  both  hands  heavily 

Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain,  his 
men,  432 

Approached  between  them  toward  the 
King,  and  asked, 

"A  boon,  Sir  King"  (his  voice  was  all 
ashamed), 

"For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hunger- 
worn 

I  seem — leaning  on  these?  grant  me  to 
serve 

For  meat  and  drink  among  thy  kitchen- 
knaves 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek  my 
name. 

Hereafter  I  will  fight." 

To  him  the  King, 
"A   goodly  youth   and   worth    a    goodlier 

boon !  440 

But  so  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then  must 

Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks,  be 

thine." 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


145 


He  rose  and  passed ;  then  Kay,  a  man 
of  mien 
Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  itself 
Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

"Lo  ye  now ! 
This     fellow     hath    broken     from    some 

Abbey,  where, 
God   wot,   he  had  not  beef  and  brewis^ 

enow, 
However  that   might  chance!   but  an  he 

work. 
Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop. 
And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any  hog." 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  "Sir 
Seneschal,  451 

Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray,^ 
and  all  the  hounds ; 

A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thou  dost 
not  know: 

Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair  and 
fine, 

High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine,  and 
hands 

Large,  fair  and  fine! — Some  young  lad's 
mystery — 

But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall,  the 
boy 

Is  noble-natured.  Treat  him  with  all 
grace. 

Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy  judg- 
ing of  him." 

Then  Kay,  "What  murmurest  thou  of 
mystery  ?  460 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the 
King's  dish? 

Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like :  mystery ! 

Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had  asked 

For  horse  and  armor:  fair  and  fine,  for- 
sooth I 

Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands?  but  see 
thou  to  it 

That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot,  some 
fine  day 

Undo  thee  not — and  leave  my  man  to 
me." 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 

The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen-vassalage; 

Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the 
door,  470 

And  couched  at  night  with  grimy  kitchen- 
knaves. 

And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleasantly, 

I  hrewi^.     Broth. 
3  gray.      Greyhound. 


But   Kay   the   seneschal,   who  loved   him 

not. 
Would  hustle  and  harry^  him,  and  labor 

him 
Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and  set 
To  turn  the  broach,*  draw  water,  or  hew 

wood. 
Or  grosser  tasks;  and  Gareth  bowed  him- 
self 
With    all    obedience    to    the    King,    and 

wrought 
All  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing  it. 
And    when    the   thralls    had    talk    among 

themselves,  481 

And    one    would    praise    the    love    that 

linked  the  King 
And  Lancelot — how  the  King  had  saved 

his  life 
In   battle   twice,   and    Lancelot   once   the 

King's — 
For   Lancelot   was   the   first    in    Tourna- 
ment, 
But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle-field — 
Gareth  was  glad.    Or  if  some  other  told, 
How    once    the    wandering    forester    at 

dawn. 
Far  over  the  blue  tarns^  and  hazy  seas, 
On  Caer-Eryri's^  highest  found  the  King, 
A    naked    babe,    of    whom    the    Prophet 

spake,  491 

"He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 
He    passes    and    Is    healed    and    cannot 

die" — 
Gareth  was  glad.     But  if  their  talk  were 

foul, 
Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any  lark, 
Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so  loud 
That  first  they  mocked,  but,  after,  rev- 
erenced him. 
Or  Gareth,  telling  some  prodigious  tale 
Of  knights  who  sliced  a  red  life-bubbling 

way 
Thro'    twenty    folds    of    twisted    dragon, 

held  500 

All    in    a    gap-mouthed    circle    his    good 

mates 
Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands. 
Charmed;    till    Sir    Kay,    the    seneschal, 

would  come 
Blustering  upon  them,  like  a  sudden  wind 
Among  dead  leaves,   and   drive  them  ail 

apart, 

3  harry.     Drive. 

4  broach.     Roasting  spit. 

5  tarns.     Lakes. 

6  Caer-Eryri.     Mount  Saowdon. 


146 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Or    when    the    thralls   had    sport   among 

themselves, 
So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 
He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or  stone 
Was  counted  best;  and  if  there  chanced 

a  joust, 
So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to  go. 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he  saw 

the  knights  51 1 

Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring  wave. 
And   the    spear    spring,   and    good   horse 

reel,  the  boy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a  month  he  wrought  among  the 

thralls ; 
But  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  the  good 

Queen, 
Repentant    of    the   word    she    made   him 

swear, 
And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle,  sent, 
Between   the  in-crescent  and   de-crescent 

moon, 
Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from 

his  vow.  520 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  squire  of 

Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney  once, 
When  both  were  children,  and  in  lonely 

haunts 
Would  scratch  a  ragged  oval  on  the  sand, 
And  each  at  either  dash  from  either  end — 
Shame     never    made    girl     redder     than 

Gareth  joy. 
He    laughed;    he    sprang.     "Out    of    the 

smoke,  at  once 
I  leap  from  Satan's  foot  to  Peter's  knee — 
These  news   be  mine,   none  other's — nay, 

the  King's — 
Descend     into    the    city" :     whereon    he 

sought  530 

The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told  him 

all. 


Lowly,   to  kiss   his   hand,   who  answered 

him, 
"Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know  thee 

here, 
And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would  yield  thee 

thine.  540 

Make  thee   my  knight?   my  knights  are 

sworn  to  vows 
Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness. 
And,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love. 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King." 

Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from  his 

knees, 
"My  King,  for  hardihood  I  can  promise 

thee. 
For  uttermost  obedience  make  demand 
Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 
No    mellow    master    of    the    meats    and 

drinks! 
And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I  love  not  yet, 
But  love  I  shall,  God  willing."  551 

And  the  King — 
"Make    thee    my   knight    in   secret?    yea, 

but  he. 
Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest  man. 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must 

know." 

"Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let  Lance- 
lot know. 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest!" 

And  the  King — 
"But    wherefore    would    ye    men    should 

wonder  at  you  ? 
Nay,   rather    for   the   sake   of   me,    their 

King, 
And  the   deed's  sake   my  knighthood  do 

the  deed. 
Than  to  be  noised  of." 


"I   have   staggered   thy   strong  Gawain 

in  a  tilt 
For  pastime ;  yea,  he  said  it :  joust  can  L 
Make   me   thy  knight — in   secret !    let   my 

name 
Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest,  I 

spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes." 

Here  the  King's  cairn  eye 
Fell  on,  and  checked,  and  made  him  flush, 
and  bow 


Merrily  Gareth  asked, 
"Have  I  not  earned  my  cake  in  baking 

of  it?  561 

Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my  name ! 
My   deeds    will    speak :     it    is    but    for   a 

day." 
So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's  arm 
Smiled  the  great   King,  and  half-unwill- 

ingly, 
Loving    his    lusty   youthhood,   yielded   to 

him.  ., 

Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  privily, 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


147 


"I  have  given  him  the  first  quest :  he  is 

not  proven. 
Look  therefore,  when  he  calls  for  this  in 

hall, 
Thou  get  to   horse   and   follow   him    far 

away.  570 

Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en  nor 

slain." 

Then  that  same  day  there  passed  into 
the  hall 

A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 

May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple-blos- 
som. 

Hawk-eyes ;  and  lightly  was  her  slender 
nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower; 

She  into  hall  passed  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

"O  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe 

without  579 

See  to  the  foe  within !  bridge,  ford,  beset 

By  bandits,  every  one  that  owns  a  tower 

The  lord  for  half  a  league.     Why  sit  ye 

there? 
Rest  would  I   not,   Sir  King,  an  I  were 

king, 
Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 
From   cursed   bloodshed,    as   thine   altar- 
cloth 
From  that  best  blood  it  is  a  sin  to  spill." 

"Comfort  thyself,"  said  Arthur,  "I  nor 

mine 
Rest:   so  my  knighthood   keep  the  vows 

they  swore. 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall 

be 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
What  is  thy  name?  thy  need?"  59i 

"My  name?"  she  said — 
"Lynette   my  name ;   noble ;    my   need,   a 

knight 
To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 
A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands. 
And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  my- 
self. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous:  a  river 
Runs    in    three    loops    about    her    living- 
place; 
And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three 

knights 
Defend    the    passings,    brethren,    and    a 
fourth 


And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds  her 
stayed  6oo 

In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 
To   break   her   will,   and   make  her   wed 

with  him: 
And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou  send 
To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief  man 
Sir   Lancelot,   whom   he   trusts    to   over- 
throw. 
Then  wed.  with  glory:  but  she  will  not 

wed 
Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 
Now,  therefore,  have  I  come  for  Lance- 
lot." 

Then   Arthur,  mindful  of   Sir   Gareth, 

asked, 
"Damsel,    ye    know    this    Order   lives    to 

crush  6io 

All    wrongers   of   the   Realm.      But   say, 

these  four. 
Who  be  they?     What  the  fashion  of  the 


"They    be    of    foolish    fashion,    O    Sir 

King, 
The    fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 
Who  ride  abroad,  and  do  but  what  they 

will; 
Courteous   or  bestial    from  the   moment, 

such 
As  have  nor  law  nor  king;  and  three  of 

these 
Proud    in    their    fantasy    call    themselves 

the  Day, 
Morning-Star,   and   Noon-Sun,   and   Eve- 
ning-Star, 
Being   strong    fools;    and    never    a    whit 

more  wise  620 

The  fourth,  who  alway  rideth  armed  in 

black, 
A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  savagery. 
He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener 

Death, 
And    wears    a    helmet    mounted    with    a 

skull. 
And  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his  arms, 
To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape  the 

three. 
Slain     by    himself,    shall    enter    endless 

night. 
And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 

men. 
And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lancelot." 


Hereat   Sir  Gareth  called   from   where 
he  rose,  630 


148 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the 
throng, 

"A  boon,  Sir  King — this  quest!"  then — 
for  he  marked 

Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded 
bull— 

"Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  1, 

And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  I, 

And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 

Thy  promise,  King,"  and  Arthur,  glanc- 
ing at  him, 

Brought  down  a  momentary  brow.  "Rough, 
sudden, 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight — 

Go  therefore,"  and  all  hearers  were 
amazed.  640 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame, 
pride,  wrath 

Slew  the  May-white:  she  lifted  eitber 
arm, 

"Fie  on  thee,  King !  I  asked  for  thy  chief 
knight. 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen- 
knave." 

Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 
turned. 

Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the  King, 

Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street, 
and  passed 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  with- 
out, beside 

The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring  "kitch- 
en-knave." 

Now  two  great  entries  opened  from  the 

hall,  650 

At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a  range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King  would 

pace 
At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and  wood; 
And   down    from  this   a   lordly   stairway 

sloped 
Till   lost   in    blowing   trees   and   tops   of 

towers ; 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  passed  the 

King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and 

rose 
High  that  the  highest-crested  helm  could 

ride 
Therethro'  nor  graze;  and  by  this  entry 

fled 
The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to  this 
Sir  Gareth  strode,   and  saw   without  the 

door  661 


King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a 

town, 
A  warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it  stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  followed 

him  : 
This  bare  a  maiden  shield,  a  casque ;  that 

held 
The  horse,  the  spear;  whereat  Sir  Gareth 

loosed 
A  cloak  that  dropped  from  collar-bone  to 

heel, 
A    cloth    of   Toughest    web,    and    cast    it 

down. 
And   from  it,  like  a  fuel-smothered  fire, 
That  looked  half-dead,  brake  bright,  and 

flashed  as  those  670 

Dull-coated    things,    that     making    slide 

apart 
Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath  there 

burns 
A    jeweled    harness,    ere    they    pass    and 

fly. 
So    Gareth,    ere    he    parted,    flashed    in 

arms. 
Then  as  he  donned  the  helm,  and  took 

the  shield. 
And  mounted  horse  and  grasped  a  spear, 

of  grain 
Storm-strengthened  on  a  windy  site,  and 

tipped 
With  trenchant  steel,  around  him  slowly 

pressed 
The   people,   while   from   out   of   kitchen 

came 
The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who  had 

worked  680 

Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could 

but  love. 
Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps  and 

cried, 
"God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fellow- 
ship !" 
And  on  thro*   lanes  of  shouting   Gareth 

rode 
Down  the  slope  street,  and  passed  without 

the  gate. 

So  Gareth  passed  with  joy;  but  as  the 

cur 
Plucked  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere 

his  cause 
Be    cooled    by    fighting,    follows,    being 

named. 
His  owner,  but  remembers  all,  and  growls 
Remembering,    so    Sir    Kay    beside    the 

door  690 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


149 


Muttered   in   scorn   of   Gareth   whom   he 

used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

"Bound  upon  a  quest' 
With    horse    and    arms — the    King    hath 

passed  his  time — 
My    scuUion    knave !      Thralls,    to    your 

work  again, 
For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle  mine ! 
Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve  in 

East? 
Begone  I — toy     knave ! — belike     and     like 

enow 
Some  old   head-blow   not   heeded   in  his 

youth 
So    shook   his   wits   they   wander    in    his 

prime — 
Crazed!     How  the  villain   lifted  up   his 

voice,  700 

Nor  shamed  to  bawl   himself  a  kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut,  he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with  me, 
Till  peacocked  up  with  Lancelot's  noticing. 
Well — I   will   after   my   loud   knave,   and 

learn 
Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master  yet. 
Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my  lance 
Hold,  by   God's  grace,  he  shall  into  the 

mire — 
Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his  craze. 
Into  the  smoke  again." 

But  Lancelot  said, 
"Kay,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  against  the 
King,  710 

For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in  thee? 
Abide :  take  counsel ;  for  this  lad  is  great 
And   lusty,   and   knowing   both   of   lance 

and  sword." 
"Tut.   tell    not    me,"    said    Kay,    "ye   are 

overfine 
To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish  courte- 
sies" : 
Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces  rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond  the 
gate. 

But  by  the  field   of   tourney   lingering 

yet 
Muttered  the  damsel,  "Wherefore  did  the 

King  720 

Scorn  me?  for,  were  Sir  Lancelot  lacked, 

at  least 
He    might    have    yielded    to    me    one    of 

those 
Who  tilt   for  lady's  love  and  glory  here. 


Rather    than — O    sweet    heaven !      O    fie 

upon  him ! — 
His  kitchen-knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
(And  there  were  none  but   few  goodlier 

than  he) 
Shining  in   arms,   "Damsel,   the   quest    is 

mine. 
Lead,  and  I  follow."     She  thereat,  as  one 
That  smells  a  foul-fieshed  agaric^  in  the 

holt,2 
And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland 

thing,  730 

Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipped  her  slender 

nose 
With  petulant  thumb  and  finger,  shrilling, 

"Hence! 
Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen-grease. 
And  look  who  comes  behind,"   for  there 

was  Kay. 
"Knowest  thou  not  me?  thy  master?     I 

am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth." 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
"Master  no  more!  too  well  I  know  thee. 

ay— 
The    most    ungentle    knight    in    Arthur's 

hall." 
"Have    at    thee,    then,"    said    Kay:    they 

shocked,  and  Kay 
Fell    shoulder-slipped,    and    Gareth    cried 

again,  740 

"Lead,  and  I  follow,"  and  fast  away  she 

fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle^  ceased  to  fly 
Behind   her,   and  the   heart  of  her   good 

horse 
Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the 

beat. 
Perforce  she  stayed,  and  overtaken  spoke. 

"What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my  fel- 
lowship? 
Deem'st   thou    that   I    accept   thee   aught 

the  more 
Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  device 
Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappiness, 
Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy  mas- 
ter— thou  ! —  750 
Dish-washer    and    broach-turner,    loon! — 

to  me 
Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  before." 

1  agaric.     Fungus. 

2  holt.     Wood. 

3  shingle.     Sand. 


150 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Damsel,"  Sir  Gareth  answered  gently, 
"say 
Whate'er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe'er  ye  say, 
I  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest, 
Or  die  therefor." 

"Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it? 

Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  he 
talks !  _ 

The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the  man- 
ner of  it. 

But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met  with, 
knave. 

And  then  by  such  a  one  that  thou  for 
all  760 

The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supped 

Shalt  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the 
face. 

"I   shall   assay,"^   said   Gareth   with   a 

smile 
That  maddened  her,  and  away  she  flashed 

again 
Down   the  long  avenues  of   a  boundless 

wood. 
And    Gareth    following    was    again    be- 

knaved. 

"Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  missed  the 

only  way 
Where   Arthur's   men   are   set   along  the 

wood; 
The  wood  is  nigh  as   full  of  thieves  as 

leaves : 
If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee:   but 

yet,  770 

Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit  of 

thine? 
Fight,  an  thou  canst :  I  have  missed  the 

only  way." 

So  till  the  dusk  that  followed  evensong 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and   reviled ; 
Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted, 

saw, 
Bowl-shaped,   thro'    tops   of   many   thou- 
sand pines 
A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To    westward — in    the    deeps    whereof    a 

mere,2 
Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle-owl, 
Under  the  half -dead  sunset  glared;   and 
shouts  780 

Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  servingman 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and 
crying, 

1  assay.     Make  trial. 

2  mere.     Lake. 


"They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him  in 

the  mere." 
Then  Gareth,  "Bound  am  I  to  right  the 

wronged, 
But   straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with 

thee." 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contemptu- 
ously, 
"Lead,  and  I  follow,"  Gareth  cried  again, 
"Follow,    I    lead !"    so   down   among    the 

pines 
He    plunged;    and    there,    blackshadowed 

nigh  the  mere, 
And   mid  -  thigh  -  deep    in   bulrushes   and 

reed,  790 

Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
A  stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him  in 

it. 
Three  with   good   blows   he  quieted,  but 

three 
Fled  thro*  the  pines;  and  Gareth  loosed 

the  stone 
From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere  be- 
side 
Tumbled  it ;  oilily  bubbled  up  the  mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on  free 

feet 
Set    him,    a    stalwart    Baron,    Arthur's 

friend. 

"Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these  caitiflf 

rogues 
Had    wreaked    themselves    on   me ;    good 

cause  is  theirs  800 

To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever  been 
To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  vermin 

here 
Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about  his 

neck; 
And  under  this  wan^  water  many  of  them 
Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the  stone, 
And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly  light 
Dance  on  the  mere.     Good  now,  ye  have 

saved   a   life 
Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of  this 

wood. 
And  fain  would  I   reward  thee  worship- 

fully.4 
What  guerdon  will  ye?"  810 

Gareth  sharply  spake,- 
"None !  for  the  deed's  sake  have  I  done 

the  deed. 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But   wilt  thou  yield  this   damsel  harbor- 
age?" 

3  wan.     Dark. 

4  worshipjully.     Honorably. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


151 


Whereat  the  Baron  saying,  "I  well  be- 
lieve 

You  be  of  Arthur's  Table,"  a  light  laugh 

Broke  from  Lynette,  "Ay,  truly  of  a 
truth. 

And  in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen- 
knave  ! — 

But  deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the 
more. 

Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy 
spit 

Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters.    820 

A  thresher  with  his  flail  had^  scattered 
them. 

Nay — for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 
still. 

But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harborage, 

Well." 

So  she  spake.    A  league  beyond 

the   wood. 
All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich, 
His  towers,  where  that  day  a  feast  had 

been 
Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a  viand  left. 
And   many   a    costly   cate,^   received   the 

three. 
And  there  they  placed  a  peacock  in  his 

pride 
Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron  set  830 
Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she  rose. 

"Meseems,  that  here  is  much  discour- 
tesy, 

Setting  this  knave,  Lord  Baron,  at  my 
side. 

Hear  me — this  morn  I  stood  in  Arthur's 
hall. 

And  prayed  the  King  would  grant  me 
Lancelot 

To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and 
Night— 

The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 

Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I  called — 

Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless^  kitchen- 
knave, 

'The  quest  is  mine;  thy  kitchen-knave  am 
I,  840 

And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  L' 

Then  Arthur,  all  at  once  gone  mad,  re- 
plies, 

*Go  therefore,'  and  so  gives  the  quest  to 
him — 

Him — here — a  villain  fitter  to  stick  swine 

1  had.     Would  have. 

2  cate.     Dainty. 

3  fronlless.     Shameless. 


Than    ride    abroad    redressing    women's 

wrong, 
Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman." 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part-amazed, 
the  lord 
Now  looked  at  one  and  now  at  other,  left 
The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his  pride. 
And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board,  850 
Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then  began, 

"Friend,  whether  thou  be  kitchen- 
knave,  or  not, 

Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fantasy, 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the 
King, 

Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I  ask  not :  but  thou  strikest  a  strong 
stroke. 

For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  there- 
withal. 

And  saver  of  my  life;  and  therefore  now. 

For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh* 

Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel 
back  860 

To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  King. 

Thy  pardon;  I  but  speak  for  thine  avail, 

The  saver  of  my  life." 

And  Gareth  said, 
"Full  pardon,  but  I  follow  up  the  quest, 
Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death  and 
Hell." 

So  when,   next   morn,   the   lord   whose 

life  he  saved 
Had,  some  brief  space,  conveyed  them  on 

their  way 
And     left     them     with     God-speed,     Sir 

Gareth  spake, 
"Lead,    and    I    follow."      Haughtily    she 

replied, 

"I   fly   no  more :   I   allow  thee   for   an 

hour.  870 

Lion     and    stoat    have     isled^     together, 

knave. 
In  time  of  flood.     Nay,  furthermore,  me- 

thinks 
Some  ruth^  is  mine  for  thee.     Back  wilt 

thou,  fool? 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 
And  slay  thee :  then  will  I  to  court  again, 

4  weigh.     Consider. 

5  isled.     Found  island  shelter. 

6  ruth.     Pity. 


152 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  shame   the   King   for   only   yielding 

me 
My    champion    from    the    ashes    of    his 

hearth." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answered  courte- 
ously, 

"Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my 
deed. 

Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou  wilt 
find  880 

My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers  who  lay 

Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the  King's 
son. 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those  long 

loops 
Wherethro'  the  serpent  river  coiled,  they 

came. 
Rough-thicketed     were     the     banks     and 

steep;  the  stream 
Full,  narrow;  this  a  bridge  of  single  arc 
Took  at  a  leap;  and  on  the  further  side 
Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily^  in 

hue, 
Save    that    the    dome    was    purple,    and 

above,  .      890 

Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering. 
And     therebefore     the     lawless     warrior 

paced 
Unarmed,    and    calling,    "Damsel,    is   this 

he, 
The    champion    thou    hast    brought    from 

Arthur's  hall 
For    whom    we    let    thee    pass  ?"      "Nay, 

nay,"  she  said, 
"Sir   Morning-Star.     The   King   in   utter 

scorn 
Of  thee   and   thy   much   folly   hath   sent 

thee  here 
His  kitchen-knave:  and  look  thou  to  thy- 
self: 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly. 
And  slay  thee  unarmed :  he  is  not  knight 

but  knave."  900 

Then  at  his  call,  "O  daughters  of  the 
Dawn, 
And   servants   of   the   Morning-Star,   ap- 
proach, 
Arm   me,"    from   out   the   silken  curtain- 
folds 
Bare-footed    and   bare-headed   three    fair 
girls 
I  Lent-lily.     Daffodil. 


In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came :  their  feet 
In  dewy  grasses  glistened ;  and  the  hair 
All  over  glanced  with   dewdrop  or   with 

gem 
Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine.^ 
These  armed  him  in  blue  arms,  and  gave 

a  shield  909 

Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning  star. 
And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the  knight, 
Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse  was 

brought, 
Glorying;  and  in  the  stream  beneath  him, 

shone 
Immingled   with   Heaven's   azure   waver- 

ingly, 
The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet, 
His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the  star. 


Then  she  that  watched  him,  "Where- 
fore stare  ye  so? 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear:  there  yet  is 
time: 

Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to 
horse. 

Who  will  cry  shame?  Thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave."  920 


Said   Gareth,   "Damsel,  whether  knave 

or  knight, 
Far  liefer  had  I  fight  a  score  of  times 
Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  revile. 
Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who  fights 

for  thee; 
But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine  arms, 

I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him." 


And  he  that  bore 
The  star,  when  mounted,  cried  from  o'er 

the  bridge, 
"A  kitchen-knave,  and   sent  in  scorn   of 

me! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with 

scorn.  930 

For  this  were  shame  to  do  him   further 

wrong 
Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 

horse 
And    arms,    and    so    return    him    to   the 

King. 
Come,   therefore,   leave  thy  lady   lightly, 

knave. 

3  AvanluriHC.     Sparkling  quartz. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


153 


Avoid :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady." 

"Dog,  thou  liest ! 
I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine 

own." 
He  spake ;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the  two 
Shocked  on  the  central  bridge,  and  either 

spear 
Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight  at 

once,  940 

Hurled  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  catapult 
Beyond     his     horse's     crupper     and     the 

bridge. 
Fell,  as  if  dead;  but  quickly  rose  and  drew. 
And   Gareth   lashed   so  fiercely  with  his 

brand 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down  the 

bridge. 
The  damsel  crying,  "Well-stricken,  kitch- 
en-knave !" 
Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven;  but  one 

stroke 
Laid  hira  that  clove  it  grovelling  on  the 

ground. 

Then   cried   the    fall'n,   "Take   not   my 

life:    I  yield."  949 

And  Gareth,  "So  this  damsel  ask  it  of  me 

Good — I  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace." 

She   reddening,   "Insolent   scullion:    I   of 

thee? 
I  bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  asked !" 
"Then  shall  he  die."     And  Gareth  there 

unlaced 
His    helmet    as    to    slay    him,    but    she 

shrieked, 
"Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to  slay 
One  nobler  than  thyself."     "Damsel,  thy 

charge 
Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me.    Knight, 
Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command.    Arise 
And  quickly  pass   to   Arthur's   hall,   and 
say  960 

His   kitchen-knave   hath   sent   thee.     See 

thou   crave 
His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his  laws. 
Myself,  when  I  return,  will  plead  for  thee. 
Thy  shield  is  mine — farewell;  and,  dam- 
sel, thou, 
Lead,  and  I  follow." 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 
Then    when    he   came   upon    her,    spake, 

"Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watched  thee  striking  on 

the  bridge 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 


A    little    faintlier;    but    the    wind    hath 

changed ; 
I   scent   it   twenty-fold."     And   then   she 

sang,  970 

"  'O    morning   star'    (not   that   tall    felon 

there 
Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or  some  device,  hast  foully  overthrown), 
'O  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 
O  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven 

true. 
Smile  sweetly,  thou !  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me.' 

"But   thou   begone,   take   counsel,    and 
away, 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 

ford— 
The   second  brother  in  their   fool's  para- 
ble- 
Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to  boot. 
Care  not  for  shame:  thou  art  not  knight 
but  knave."  981 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answered  laugh- 
ingly, 

"Parables?    Hear  a  parable  of  the  knave. 

When  I  was  kitchen-knave  among  the 
rest 

Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my  co- 
mates 

Owned  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast  his 
coat, — 

'Guard  it,'  and  there  was  none  to  meddle 
with  it. 

And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the 
King 

Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog  am  I, 

To  worry,  and  not  to  flee — and — knight 
or  knave —  990 

The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as  full 
knight 

Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 

Toward  thy  sister's   freeing." 

"Ay,  Sir  Knave  I 
Ay,    knave,    because    thou    strikest    as    a 

knight. 
Being  but  knave,  I  hate  thee  all  the  more." 

"Fair  damsel,  you  should  worship^  me 
the  more. 
That,  being  but  knave,  I  throw  thine  en- 
emies." 

"Ay,  ay,"  she  said,  "but  thou  shalt  meet 
thy  match." 

r  worship.     Honor. 


154 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


So  when  they  touched  the  second  river- 
loop, 
Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all  in  mail 
Burnished  to  blinding,   shone  the   Noon- 
day Sun  looi 
Beyond    a    raging    shallow.      As    if    the 

flower, 
That  blows  a  globe  of   after  arrowIets,i 
Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flashed  the 

fierce  shield, 
All    sun ;    and    Gareth's   eyes    had    flying 

blots 
Before  them  when  he  turned  from  watch- 
ing him. 
He     from    beyond    the    roaring    shallow 

roared, 
"What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my  march- 

es^  here?" 
And    she    athwart    the    shallow    shrilled 

again, 
"Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Arthur's 

hall  loio 

Hath   overthrown   thy   brother,   and   hath 

his   arms." 
"Ugh !"  cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring  up  a 

red 
And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness. 
Pushed  horse  across  the  foamings  of  the 

ford. 
Whom  Gareth  met  mid-stream:  no  room 

was  there 
For  lance  or  tourney-skill :   four  strokes 

they  struck 
With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty;  the 

new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ;  but  as  the 

Sun 
Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike  the 

fifth, 
The   hoof    of    his    horse    slipped    in    the 

stream,  the  stream  1020 

Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  washed  away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart  the 

ford; 
So  drew  him  home ;  but  he  that  fought  no 

more, 
As  being  all  bone-battered  on  the  rock. 
Yielded ;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the  King. 
"Myself    when    I    return    will   plead    for 

thee"— 
"Lead,  and  I  follow."    Quietly  she  led. 
"Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel,  changed 

again?" 
"Nay,  not  a  point:  nor  art  thou   victor 

here. 

I  The  dandelion. 

3  marches.     Territory. 


There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford ; 

His    horse   thereon    stumbled — ay,    for    I 

saw  it.  1031 

"  'O  Sun'   (not  this  strong   fool  whom 

thou,   Sir  Knave, 
Hast    overthrown    thro'    mere    unhappi- 

ness),^ 
'O  Sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or  pain, 
O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again. 
Shine  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong  or  of 
love? 

Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly 
born. 

Thou  hast  a  pleasant  presence.  Yea,  per- 
chance,— 

"  'O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the  sun, 
O  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is 

done,  1 04 1 

Blow  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me.* 

"What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  except, 

belike. 
To    garnish    meats    with?   hath    not    our 

good  King 
Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitchen- 

dom, 
A  foolish  love  for  flowers?  what  stick  ye 

round 
The  pasty?   wherewithal  deck  the  boar's 

head? 
Flowers?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rosemaries 

and  bay. 

"  'O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morning 

sky, 
O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by. 
Sing  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me.'  105 1 

"What    knowest    thou    of    birds,    lark, 

mavis,  merle. 
Linnet?  what  dream  ye  when  they  utter 

forth 
.  May-music    growing    with    the    growing 

light. 
Their   sweet   sun-worship?   these   be    for 

the   snare 
(So  runs   thy    fancy),   these  be   for  the 

spit, 

3  unhappiness.     Mischance. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


155 


Larding  and  basting.  See  thou  have  not 
now 

Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and  fly. 

There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their  alle- 
gory." 

For   there   beyond   a   bridge   of   treble 

bow.i  1060 

All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and  all 
Naked    it    seemed,    and    glowing    in    the 

broad 
Deep-dimpled     current     underneath,     the 

knight, 
That  named  himself  the  Star  of  Evening, 

stood. 

And  Gareth,  "Wherefore  waits  the  mad- 
man there 

Naked  in  open  dayshine?"  "Nay,"  she 
cried, 

"Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  hardened  skins 

That  fit  him  like  his  own ;  and  so  ye 
cleave 

His  armor  oflf  him,  these  will  turn  the 
blade." 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o'er  the 

bridge.  1070 

"O   brother-star,    why   shine   ye   here   so 

low? 
Thy  ward^  is  higher  up :  but  have  ye  slain 
The  damsel's  champion?"  and  the  damsel 
cried, 

"No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from  Ar- 
thur's heaven 

With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee ! 

For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have  gone 
down 

Before  this  youth;  and  so  wilt  thou.  Sir 
Star; 

Art  thou  not  old?" 

"Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard. 
Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of  twenty 

boys." 
Said  Gareth,  "Old,  and  over-bold  in  brag! 
But  that  same  strength  which  threw  the 

Morning  Star  1081 

Can  throw  the  Evening." 

Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 
"Approach    and    arm    me !"      With    slow 

steps   from  out 
An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many-stained 

I  treble  boiv.     Triple  arch. 
3  ward.     Position. 


Pavilion,  forth  a  grizzled  damsel  came, 
And  armed  him  in  old  arms,  and  brought 

a  helm 
With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest, 
And  gave  a  shield   whereon   the   Star  of 

Even 
Half-tarnished   and   half-bright,   his   em- 
blem, shone.  1090 
But  when  it  glittered  o'er  the  saddle-bow. 
They     madly     hurled     together     on     the 

bridge ; 
And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted,  drew. 
There  met  him  drawn,  and  overthrew  him 

again ; 
But  up  like  fire  he  started:  and  as  oft 
As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on  his 

knees. 
So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again; 
Till   Gareth  panted  hard,   and   his   great 

heart. 
Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in  vain. 
Labored  within  him,  for  he  seemed  as  one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins  iioi 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life. 
But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and  cry, 
"Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst  not 

put  us  down !" 
He  half   despairs;   so  Gareth   seemed  to 

strike 
Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the  while, 
"Well   done,  knave-knight,   well    stricken, 

O  good  knight-knave — 
O    knave,    as    noble    as    any   of    all    the 

knights — 
Shame  me   not,   shame  me  not.     I   have 

prophesied — 
Strike,    thou    art    worthy    of    the    Table 

Round—  mo 

His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  hardened 

skin — 
Strike  —  strike  —  the    wind    will    never 

change  again." 
And     Gareth,     hearing,     ever     stronglier 

smote. 
And  hewed  great  pieces  of  his  armor  off 

him, 
But  lashed  in  vain  against  the  hardened 

skin. 
And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under, 

more 
Than   loud    Southwesterns,   rolling   ridge 

on  ridge. 
The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips  and 

springs 
For    ever;    till    at    length    Sir    Gareth's 

brand 
Clashed  his,  and  brake  it  utterly   to  the 

hilt.  1 120 


156 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"I  have  thee  now;"  but  forth  that  other 
sprang, 

And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his  wiry 
arms 

Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his  mail, 

Strangled,  but  straining  ev'n  his  utter- 
most 

Cast,  and  so  hurled  him  headlong  o'er  the 
bridge 

Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and 
cried, 

"Lead,  and  I  follow." 

But  the  damsel  said, 
"I  lead  no  longer;  ride  thou  at  my  side; 
Thou    art    the    kingliest    of    all    kitchen- 
knaves. 

"  'O    trefoil,*    sparkling    on    the    rainy 
plain,  1 130 

O  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain, 
Shine  sweetly :  thrice  my  love  hath  smiled 
on  me.' 

"Sir, — and,  good  faith,  I  fain  had  added 

Knight, 
But    that    I    heard    thee    call    thyself    a 

knave, — 
Shamed  am  I  that  I  so  rebuked,  reviled, 
Missaid  thee;   noble   I   am;  and  thought 

the  King 
Scorned  me  and  mine;  and  now  thy  par- 
don, friend, 
For  thou  hast  ever  answered  courteously. 
And    wholly    bold    thou    art,    and    meek 

withal 
As    any    of    Arthur's    best,    but,    being 

knave,  1140 

Hast  mazed  my  wit :  I  marvel  what  thou 

art." 

"Damsel,"  he  said,  "you  be  not  all  to 

blame, 
Saving  that  you  mistrusted  our  good  King 
Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  you,  asking, 

one 
Not   fit   to   cope   your   quest.     You   said 

your  say; 
Mine  answer  was  my  deed.    Good  sooth ! 

I  hold 
He   scarce   is   knight,   yea   but  half-man, 

nor  meet 
To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who  lets 
His  heart  be  stirred  with  any  foolish  heat 
At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 
Shamed  ?     care     not !     thy     foul     sayings 

fought  for  me:  1151 

I  trefoil.     Clover  (or  a  similar  plant). 


And  seeing  now  they  words  are  fair,  me- 

thinks 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his 

great  self. 
Hath  force  to  quell  me." 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 
When  the  lone  hern^  forgets  his  melan- 
choly. 
Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretching, 

dreams 
Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool, 
Then  turned  the  noble  damsel  smiling  at 

him, 
And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at  hand. 
Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and  good 
red    wine  1 160 

Of   Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyonors 
Had   sent   her  coming  champion,   waited 
him. 

Anon     they    passed     a    narrow    comb 

wherein 
Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures,  knights 

on  horse 
Sculptured,  and  decked  in  slowly-waning 

hues. 
"Sir    Knave,    my   knight,    a   hermit   once 

was  here, 
Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashioned  on  the 

rock 
The   war   of    Time   against   the   soul   of 

man. 
And    yon    four   fools   have   sucked   their 

allegory 
From  these   damp   walls,   and   taken   but 

the  form.  1170 

Know  ye  not  these?"  and  Gareth  looked 

and  read — 
In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary^ 
Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  streaming 

Gelt— 
"Phosphorus,"   then   "Meridies," — "Hes- 
perus" ^ — 
"Nox" — "Mors,"  ^    beneath     five     figures, 

armed  men, 
Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward  all. 
And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  Shape  that 

fled 
With    broken    wings,    torn    raiment    and 

loose  hair. 
For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit's  cave. 

2  hern.     Heron. 

3  vexillary.  Standard-bearer.  (A  Roman  sol- 
dier carved  an  inscription  on  the  rocks  above  th* 
River  Gelt  which  still  remains.) 

4  Dawn,  Noon,  Evening. 

5  Nox,  Mors.     Night,  Death. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


157 


"Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it. — Look, 
Who  comes  behind?"  1181 

For  one — delayed  at  first 
Thro*  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To    Camelot,    then    by     what    thereafter 

chanced, 
The    damsel's    headlong   error^    thro'    the 

wood — 
Sir    Lancelot,    having    swum    the    river- 
loops — 
His  blue  shield-lions  covered — softly  drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the 

star 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's   turning  to  him, 

cried, 
"Stay,  felon  knight,  I  avenge  me  for  my 

"friend." 
And   Gareth   crying   pricked   against   the 

cry;  I 190 

But  when  they  closed — in  a  moment — at 

one  touch 
Of  that  skilled  spear,  the  wonder  of  the 

world — 
Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within  his 

hands 
He   laughed;    the   laughter,   jarred   upon 

Lynette : 
Harshly    she    asked    him,    "Shamed    and 

overthrown. 
And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen-knave, 
Why  laugh  ye?  that  ye  blew  your  boast 

in  vain?" 
"Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 
Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Belli- 

cent,  1200 

And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford. 
And  knight  of   Arthur,  here  lie  thrown 

by  whom 
I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappiness — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness — 
Out,    sword ;     we    are    thrown !"      And 

Lancelot   answered,   "Prince, 
O  Gareth — thro*  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who   came  to  help   thee,   not  to 

harm, 
Lancelot,    and   all    as   glad    to   find    thee 

whole, 
As    on    the    day    when    Arthur   knighted 

him." 

Then   Gareth,   "Thou — Lancelot ! — thine 
the  hand  1210 

That  threw  me?    An  some  chance  to  mar 
the  boast 
t  error,     waodering. 


Thy  brethren  of  thee  make — which  could 

not  chance — 
Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser  spear, 
Shamed  had  I  been,  and  sad — O  Lance- 
lot—thou !" 

Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant:  "Lance- 
lot, 
Why    came    ye    not,    when    called?    and 

wherefore  now 
Come   ye,   not  called?     I   gloried   in   my 

knave. 
Who  being  still    rebuked,  would   answer 

still 
Courteous    as    any    knight — but    now,    if 

knight. 
The   marvel   dies,   and   leaves   me   fooled 

and  tricked,  1220 

And    only    wondering    wherefore    played 

upon : 
And    doubtful   whether    I    and    mine    be 

scorned. 
Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
In    Arthur's    presence?      Knight,    knave, 

prince  and  fool, 
I  hate  thee  and  for  ever." 

And  Lancelot   said, 

"Blessed  be  thou.  Sir  Gareth !  knight  art 
thou 

To  the  King's  best  wish.  O  damsel,  be 
you  wise 

To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  over- 
thrown? 

Thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once,  but  many 
a  time.  1229 

Victor  from  vanquished  issues  at  the  last. 

And  overthrower  from  being  overthrown. 

With  sword  we  have  not  striven ;  and  thy 
good  horse 

And  thou  are  weary ;  yet  not  less  I  felt 

Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance  of 
thine. 

W^ell  hast  thou  done;  for  all  the  stream 
is  freed, 

And  thou  hast  wreaked  his  justice  on  his 
foes. 

And  when  reviled,  hast  answered  gra- 
ciously. 

And  makest  merry  when  overthrown. 
Prince,  Knight, 

Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our 
Table  Round !" 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette  he 
told  1240 

The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said. 


158 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Ay  well — ay  well — for  worse  than  being 

fooled 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.    A  cave, 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and 

drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for 

fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,    till    we    find."      And    when    they 

sought  and  found. 
Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate.  and  all  his  life 
Passed  into  sleep;  on  whom  the  maiden 

gazed. 
"Sound   sleep  be   thine!    sound   cause   to 

sleep  hast  thou.  1250 

Wake  lusty!     Seem  I  not  as  tender  to 

him 
As  any  mother?     Ay,  but  such  a  one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  1  at  her  child. 
And    vexed    his    day,    but    blesses    him 

asleep — 
Good    Lord,    how    sweetly     smells    the 

honeysuckle 
In  the  hushed  night,  as  if  the  world  were 

one 
Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentleness! 
O  Lancelot,  Lancelot," — and  she  clapped 

her  hands — 
"Full    merry    am    I    to    find    my    goodly 

knave 
Is   knight   and  noble.     See  now,   sworn 

have  I—  1260 

Else   yon    black    felon    had    not   let    me 

pass — 
To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with 

him. 
Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will   fight  thee 

first; 
Who    doubts    thee    victor?    so    will    my 

knight-knave 
Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplish- 
ment." 

Said  Lancelot :  "Peradventure,  he  you 

name 
May   know    my   shield.     Let   Gareth,    an 

he  will, 
Change    his     for    mine,    and    take    my 

charger,   fresh, 
Not  to  be  spurred,  loving  the  battle  as 

well 
As  he  that  rides  him."     "Lancelot-like," 

she  said.  1270 

"Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as  in 

all." 

I  rated.     Scolded. 


And  Gareth,  wakening,  fiercely  clutched 

the  shield ; 
"Ramp,     ye     lance-splintering    lions,     on 

whom  all  spears 
Are  rotten  sticks!  ye  seem  agape  to  roar! 
Yea,   ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your 

lord!— 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care  for 

you. 

0  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on  these 
Streams  virtue — fire — thro'  one  that  will 

not  shame 
Even    the    shadow    of    Lancelot    under 

shield. 
Hence:  let  us  go.'* 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They    traversed.      Arthur's    Harp,^    tho' 

summer- wan,  1281 

In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  allured 

The   glance  of   Gareth   dreaming  on   his 

liege.3 
A  star  shot:  "Lo,"  said  Gareth,  "the  foe 

falls !" 
An  owl  whooped:  "Hark  the  victor  peal- 
ing there!" 
Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 
Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent  him, 

crying, 
"Yield,  yield  him  this  again:  'tis  he  must 
fight: 

1  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yesterday 
Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on  Lance- 
lot now  1290 

To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield:  wonders 

ye  have  done; 
Miracles  ye  cannot :  here  is  glory  enow 
In    having   flung   the    three:    I    see   thee 

maimed. 
Mangled :    I   swear   thou   canst   not   fling 

the  fourth." 

"And   wherefore,   damsel?   tell   me  all 

ye  know. 
You  cannot  scare  me;  nor  rough  face,  or 

voice. 
Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savagery 
Appal  me  from  the  quest." 

"Nay,   Prince."  she  cried. 
"God  wot,  I  never  looked  upon  the  face. 
Seeing  he   never  rides  abroad  by  day. 
But  watched  him  have  I  like  a  phantom 

pass  1301 

Chilling  the  night:  nor  have  I  heard  the 

voice. 


7  Arthur's  Harf. 
3  liege.     Prince. 


The  constellation  Lyra. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


159 


Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a 
page 

Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported 
him 

As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of  ten, 

And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massa- 
cring 

Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl — yea,  ttie  soft 
babe! 

Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallowed  Infant 
flesh, 

Monster!  O  Prince.  I  went  for  Lance- 
lot first, 

The  quest  is  Lancelot's :  give  him  back 
the  shield."  1310 

Said  Gareth  laughing,  "An  he  fight  for 
this, 
Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man: 
Thus — and  not  else!" 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
When  one   might   meet   a   mightier  than 

himself ; 
How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance,  sword 

and  shield, 
And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force  might 

fail 
With  skill  and  fineness.    Instant^  were  his 

words. 

Then  Gareth,  "Here  be  rules.     I  know 

but  one — 
To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to  win. 
Yet  have   I    watched  thee  victor   in   the 

joust,  1321 

And  seen  thy  way."    "Heaven  help  thee !" 

sighed  Lynette. 

Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud  that 

grew 
To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars,  they 

rode 
In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey  halt. 
Lifted    an    arm,    and    softly    whispered, 

"There." 
And   all   the   three    were    silent,    seeing, 

pitched 
Beside   the   Castle   Perilous  on   flat   field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
Simder    the    glooming    crimson    on    the 

maTge,2  1330 

Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a  long  black 

horn 

t  Instant.     Earnest. 

a  Margt,     Horizon.     (It  is  now  dawn.) 


Beside    it    hanging;    which    Sir    Gareth 

grasped. 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder  him. 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all  the 

horn. 
Echoed  the  walls,  a  light  twinkled;  anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again  he 

blew; 
Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up  and 

down 
And  mufHed  voices  heard,  and  shadows 

passed ; 
Till    high    above    him,    circled    with    her 

maids,  1339 

The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to  him 
White  hands,  and  courtesy;  but  when  the 

Prince 
Three  times  had  blown — after  long  hush 

— at  last — 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up. 
Thro'   those   black    foldings,   that   which 

housed  therein. 
High  on  a  nightblack  horse,  in  nightblack 

arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren  ribs 

of  Death, 
And    crowned    with    fleshless    laughter — 

some  ten  steps — 
In  the  half-light — thro'  the  dim  dawn — 

advanced 
The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and  spake 

no  word.  1350 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly, 
"Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the  strength 

of  ten. 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God 

hath  given. 
But   must,   to   make   the  terror  of   thee 

more. 
Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and 

the  clod. 
Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with  man- 
tling flowers 
As  if  for  pity?"    But  he  spake  no  word; 
Which  set  the  horror  higher:  a  maiden 

swooned ; 
The  Lady  Lyonors  wrimg  her  hands  and 

wept,  1360 

As  doomed  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and 

Death ; 
Sir   Gareth's   head   prickled   beneath   his 

helm; 
And  even  Sir  Lancelot   thro'   his  warm 

blood  felt 


160 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Ice  strike,  and  all  that  marked  him  were 
aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot's  charger  fiercely 

neighed, 
And    Death's    dark    war-horse    bounded 

forward  with  him. 
Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  terror, 

saw 
That    Death    was    cast    to    ground,    and 

slowly   rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split  the 

skull. 
Half   fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and 

lay.  1370 

Then  with  a  stronger  buflfet  he  clove  the 

helm 
As  throughly*  as  the  skull ;  and  out  from 

this 
Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming  boy 
Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying, 

"Knight, 
Slay  me  not :  my  three  brethren  bade  me 

do   it. 
To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house. 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 
They  never  dreamed  the  passes  would  be 

passed." 
Answered   Sir  Gareth   graciously   to   one 
Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  "My  fair 

child,  1380 

What  madness   made   thee  challenge   the 

chief  knight 
Of  Arthur's  hall?"    "Fair  Sir,  they  bade 

me  do  it. 
They   hate  the   King,   and    Lancelot,   the 

King's  friend. 
They  hoped   to   slay  him   somewhere  on 

the  stream; 
They  never  dreamed  the  passes  could  be 

passed." 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from  un- 
derground ; 

And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with 
dance 

And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over 
Death, 

As  being,  after  all  their  foolish  fears 

And  horrors,  only  proven  a  blooming  boy. 

So  large  mirth  lived,  and  Gareth  won  the 
quest.  1 39 1 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older  times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 

(1872) 

I  throughly.     Thoroughly. 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[This  poem  deals  with  an  incident  of  the  days 
when  the  corruption  and  fall  of  Arthur's  king- 
dom were  beginning,  the  chief  cause  being  the 
guilty  love  of  Lancelot,  Arthur's  most  trusted 
knipht,  and  Guinevere,  his  Queen.  It  should  be 
noticed  that,  after  the  opening  of  the  poem,  the 
story  goes  back  (line  34)  to  the  tale  of  the 
diamond  necklace,  and  that  we  turn  to  the  open- 
ing scene  at   line   396.] 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 

east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 
Which   first  she  placed  where  morning's 

earliest  ray 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the 

gleam ; 
Then,   fearing  rust  or  soilure,   fashioned 

for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
In   their   own   tinct,^   and  added,   of   her 

wit,  10 

A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower. 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day. 
Leaving  her  household  and  good   father, 

climbed 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barred 

her  door, 
Stripped  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 

shield, — 
Now   guessed   a  hidden   meaning   in   his 

arms. 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it. 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon 

it,  20 

Conjecturing  when  and  where:  this  cut 

is   fresh ; 
That   ten  years  back;  this   dealt  him  at 

Caerlyle ; 
That  at  Caerleon;  this  at  Camelot: 
And    ah    God's    mercy,    what    a    stroke 

was  there ! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  killed, 

but  God 
Broke   the   strong   lance,   and   rolled   his 

enemy   down, 
And  saved  him :  so  she  lived  in   fantasy.^ 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 
shield 

2  tinct.     Color. 

3  fantasy.     Imagination. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


161 


Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his 

name? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great   diamond   in  the   diamond 

jousts,  31 

Which  Arthur  had  ordained,  and  by  that 

name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was 

the  prize. 

For  Arthur,  long  before  they  crowned 

him  King, 
Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyonesse, 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and  black 

tarn.i 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like   its  own  mists  to  all   the   mountain 

side: 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had 

met 
And    fought    together;    but    their    names 

were  lost;  40 

And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a  blow ; 
And  down  they   fell  and  made  the  glen 

abhorred : 
And   there   they   lay   till   all   their   bones 

were  bleached. 
And  lichened  into  color  with  the  crags : 
And  he,  that  once  was  king,  had  on  a 

crown 
Of    diamonds,    one    in    front,    and    four 

aside. 
And   Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 

pass. 
All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had  trodden  that  crowned  skeleton,  and 

the  skull 
Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull 

the  crown  50 

Rolled  into  light,  and,  turning  on  its  rims. 
Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn ; 
And  down  the  shingly  scaur^  he  plunged, 

and  caught. 
And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs,  "Lo,  thou  likewise  shalt 

be   King." 

Thereafter,  when  a  King,  he  had  the 

gems 
Plucked    from    the    crown,    and    showed 

them  to  his  knights. 
Saying,     "These     jewels,     whereupon     I 

chanced 
Divinely,     are    the    kingdom's,    not    the 

King's — 

1  tarn.     Lake. 

2  shingly  scaur.     Sandy  bank. 


For   public   use:    henceforward   let  there 

be,  60 

Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these  : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must 

learn 
Which    is    our    mightiest,    and    ourselves 

shall  grow 
In    use    of    arms    and    manhood,    till    we 

drive 
The  heathen,   who,   some  say,   shall  rule 

the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."     Thus  he 

spoke : 
And   eight   years   past,   eight   jousts   had 

been,  and  still. ^ 
Had    Lancelot   won   the   diamond    of   the 

year, 
With    purpose    to   present    them    to    the 

Queen, 
When  all  were  won;  but,  meaning  all  at 

once  70 

To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken 

word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the 

last 
And    largest,    Arthur,    holding    then    his 

court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 

now 
Is    this    world's    hugest,    let    proclaim^    a 

joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guine- 
vere, 
"Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot 

move 
To  these  fair  jousts?"     "Yea,  lord,"  she 

said,   "ye  know   it."  80 

"Then   will  ye  miss,"  he  answered,   "the 

great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 
A   sight   ye  love  to  look   on."     And  the 

Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the 

King. 
He,   thinking  that   he   read   her   meaning 

there, 
"Stay  with   me,   I   am   sick ;   my   love   is 

more 
Than    many    diamonds,"   yielded;    and   a 

heart 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 

3  still.     Always. 

4  let  prodain:.     Had  proclaimed. 


162 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


(However    much    he    yearned    to    make 

complete  90 

The  tale^  of  diamonds   for  his   destined 

boon) 
Urged   him   to   speak   against   the   truth, 

and  say, 
"Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly 

whole, 
And  lets2  me  from  the  saddle;"  and  the 

King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went 

his  way. 
No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began : 

"To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot,  much 

to  blame ! 
Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts?  the 

knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 

crowd 
Will    murmur,    'Lo   the    shameless    ones. 

who  take  100 

Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  King  is 

gone !' " 
Then  Lancelot,   vexed  at   having  lied  in 

vain: 
"Are  ye  so  wise?  ye  were  not  once  so 

wise, 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye  loved 

me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more  ac- 
count 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead. 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade 

of  grass. 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.  As  to  knights, 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
But  now  my  loyal  worship^  is  allowed  no 
Of  all  men:  many  a  bard,  without  offence. 
Has    linked    our    names    together    in    his 

lay, — 
Lancelot,   the   flower  of   bravery,    Guine- 
vere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty :  and  our  knights  at 

feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the 

King 
Would  listen  smiling.    How  then?  is  there 

more? 
Has    Arthur    spoken    aught?    or    would 

yourself, 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir,* 
Henceforth    be    truer    to    your    faultless 

lord?" 

I  tale.     Number. 
a  lets.     Hinders. 

3  worship.     Honor. 

4  devoir.     Devotion. 


She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh: 
"Arthur,   my   lord,   Arthur,   the    faultless 

King,  121 

That     passionate     perfection,     my     good 

lord- 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heav- 
en? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me, 
He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth, 
He  cares  not  for  me :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleamed  a  vague  suspicion  in  his 

eyes: 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tampered  with 

him — else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And   swearing  men   to  vows  impossible, 
To  make  them  like  himself:  but,  friend, 

to  me  131 

He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all : 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of 

earth ; 
The  low  sun  makes  the  color :  I  am  yours, 
Not   Arthur's,   as  ye  know,   save   by   the 

bond. 
And  therefore  hear  my  words :  go  to  the 

jousts : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our 

dream 
When   sweetest;    and   the    vermin   voices 

here 
May  buzz   so  loud — we  scorn  them,  but 

they    sting." 

Then  answered  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 
knights :  140 

"And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext 
made. 

Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 

Before  a  King  who  honors  his  own  word, 

As  if  it  were  his  God's?" 

"Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 
"A  moral  child  without  the  craft-""  to  rule. 
Else  had  he  not  lost  me :  but  listen  to  me, 
HI  must  find  you  wit:  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at 

a  touch, 
But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot;  your  great 

name. 
This  conquers:  hide  it  therefore;  go  un- 
known :  150 
Win !  by  this  kiss  you  will :  and  our  true 

King 
Will    then    allow    your    pretext,    O    my 

knight, 
As  all  for  glory;  for  to  speak  him  true, 
S  craft.     Skill. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


163 


Ye  know  right  well,  fiow  meek  soe'er  he 
seem, 

No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 

He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than  him- 
self: 

They  prove  to  him  his  work :  win  and 
return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to 
horse, 

Wroth  at  himself.  Not  willing  to  be 
known, 

He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare, 

Chose  the  green  path  that  showed  the 
rarer  foot,  i6i 

And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 

Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way; 

Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadowed  track, 

That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 
dales 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 

Fired^  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the 
towers. 

Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gateway 
horn. 

Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrin- 
kled man. 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarmed. 

And  Lancelot  marvelled  at  the  wordless 
man;  171 

And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 

With  two  strong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and  Sir 
Lavaine, 

Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court; 

And  close  behind  them  stepped  the  lily 
maid 

Elaine,  his  daughter :  mother  of  the  house 

There  was  not:  some  light  jest  among 
them  rose 

With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great 
knight 

Approached  them :  then  the  Lord  of  As- 
tolat : 

"Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by 
what  name  180 

Livest  between  the  lips?  for  by  thy  state 

And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of 
those. 

After  the  King,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 

Him  have  I  seen :  the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  arc,  to  me  they  are  un- 
known." 

Then  answered  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights : 
I  Fired.     Lighted  up. 


"Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and 

known. 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought, 

my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not ; 
Hereafter    ye    shall    know    me — and    the 

shield —  191 

I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have. 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 

mine." 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "Here 

is   Torre's : 
Hurt    in    his    first   tilt    was    my    son.    Sir 

Torre. 
And    so,    God    wot,    his    shield    is    blank 

enough. 
His  ye  can  have."    Then  added  plain  Sir 

Torre, 
"Yea,  since  I  cannot  use  it,  ye  may  have 

it." 
Here  laughed  the  father,  saying,  "Fie,  Sir 

Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight?  200 
Allow    him !    but    Lavaine,    my    younger 

here, 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood.  he  will  ride. 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an 

hour, 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair. 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before." 

"Nay,   father,  nay  good   father,   shame 

me  not 
Before    this    noble    knight,"    said    young 

Lavaine, 
"For   nothing.     Surely   I   but   played   on 

Torre : 
He  seemed  so  sullen,  vexed  he  could  not 

go: 
A  jest,  no  more!  for,  knight,  the  maiden 

dreamt  210 

That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her 

hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held. 
And  slipped  and   fell   into  some  pool  or 

stream. 
The  castle-well,  belike;  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went  and  if  I  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  our- 
selves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was 

jest. 
But,  father,  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will, 
To    ride    to    Camelot    with    this    noble 

knight : 


164 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win: 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my  best." 

"So  ye  will  grace  me,"  answered  Lance- 
lot, 222 
Smiling  a  moment,  "with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these   waste   downs   whereon   I    lost 

myself, 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and 

friend: 
And  you   shall   win  this   diamond, — as   I 

hear 
It  is  a  fair  large  diamond, — if  ye  may. 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will." 
"A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain  Sir 

Torre, 
"Such  be  for  queens,  and  not  for  simple 
maids."  230 

Then   she,   who  held  her  eyes   upon   the 

ground, 
Elaine,    and   heard   her   name    so   tossed 

about. 
Flushed  slightly  at  the  slight  disparage- 
ment 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking 

at  her. 
Full    courtly,    yet    not    falsely,    thus    re- 
turned : 
"If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem 

this  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth. 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to   like." 

He    spoke    and    ceased :    the    lily    maid 

Elaine,  241 

Won    by    the    mellow    voice    before    she 

looked, 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 
The    great    and   guilty   love   he   bare   the 

Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord. 
Had  marred  his  face,  and  marked  it  ere 

his  time. 
Another^    sinning   on    such    heights    with 

one. 
The  flower  of  all   the   west   and   all  the 

world. 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it :  but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marred  as  he  was,  he  seemed  the  good- 
liest man  253 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  hall, 
And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
I  Another.     Any  other  man. 


However  marred,  of  more  than  twice  her 

years. 
Seamed  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on  the 

cheek. 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 

her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was 

her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of 

the  court,  260 

Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 
Stepped  with  all  g^race,  and  not  with  half 

disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time. 
But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind : 
Whom   they   with   meats   and  vintage  of 

their  best 
And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertained. 
And  much  they  asked  of  court  and  Table 

Round, 
And  ever  well  and  readily  answered  he : 
But    Lancelot,    when    they    glanced    at  - 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man. 
Heard    from   the   Baron  that,   ten  years 

before,  271 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his 

tongue. 
"He  learnt  and  warned  me  of  their  fierce 

design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught 

and  maimed; 
But  I.  my  sons,  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 

the  woods 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur 

broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill." 

"O  there,  great  lord,  doubtless,"  La- 
vaine  said,  rapt^  280 

By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of 
youth 

Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "you  have 
fought. 

O  tell  us — for  we  live  apart — you  know 

Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."  And  Lance- 
lot spoke 

And  answered  him  at  full,  as  having  been 

With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day 
long 

Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 
Glem ; 

And  in  the  four  loud  battles  by  the  shore 

a  glanced  at.     Referred  to. 
3  rapt.     Seized. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


165 


Of  Duglas;  that  on  Bassa;  then  the  war 
That   thundered   in   and   out    the   gloomy 

skirts  290 

Of  Celidon  the  forest;  and  again 
By    Castle    Gurnion,    where    the    glorious 

King 
Had    on    his    cuirass    worn    our    Lady's 

Head. 
Carved  of  one  emerald  centered  in  a  sun 
Of     silver    rays,    that    lightened    as    he 

breathed ; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  helped  his  lord. 
When  the   strong  neighings   of  the  wild 

White  Horse^^ 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering; 
And  up  in  Agned-Cathregonion  too. 
And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath 

Treroit,  300 

Where  many  a  heathen  fell;  "and  on  the 

mount 
Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge    at    the    head    of    all    his    Table 

Round, 
And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him, 
And  break  them;  and   I  saw  him,  after, 

stand 
High  on  a   heap  of  slain,    from  spur  to 

plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood. 
And    seeing   me,    with    a   great   voice   he 

cried, 
'They  are  broken,  they  are  broken !'   for 

the  King, 
However    mild    he    seems    at    home,    nor 

cares  310 

For    triumph    in    our    mimic    wars,    the 

jousts — 
For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he 

laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than 

he — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills   him :   I   never   saw   his   like :   there 

lives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  uttered  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 
"Save    your    great    self,    fair    lord";    and 

when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry — 
Being  mirthful  he,  but  in  a  stately  kind — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living 

smile  321 

Died    from   his   lips,   across  him   came   a 

cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again, 
I  White  Horse.     Emblem  of  the  Saxons. 


Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily   maid   had  striven  to   make  him 

cheer, 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tenderness 
Of    manners    and    of    nature:    and    she 

thought 
That   all  was   nature,   all,   perchance,    for 

her, 
And   all   night   long  his    face  before   her 

lived. 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face,  330 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face. 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life, 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest;  so  the  face  before  her  lived. 
Dark-splendid,    speaking    in    the    silence, 

full 
Of  noble  things,   and  held  her  from  her 

sleep. 
Till    rathe2   she   rose,   half -cheated   in   the 

thought 
She    needs    must    bid    farewell    to    sweet 

Lavaine.  339 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating: 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the 

court, 
"This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?"  and 

Lavaine 
Passed  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the 

tower. 
There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  turned, 

and  smoothed 
The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 
Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,   she 

drew 
Nearer  and  stood.     He  looked,  and  more 

amazed  348 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 
The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 
He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beautiful. 
Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 
For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 
Rapt^  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  god's. 
Suddenly  flashed  on  her  a  wild  desire. 
That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt. 
She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for 

it. 
"Fair   lord,    whose   name   I   know   not — 

noble  it  is, 
I  well  believe,  the  noblest — will  you  wear 
My  favor  at  this  tourney?"     "Nay,"  said 

he.  360 

"Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 


2  rathe. 

3  Rapt. 


Early. 

Gazing  intensely. 


166 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know  me, 

know." 
"Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd;  "then  in  wear- 
ing mine 
Needs    must    be    lesser    likelihood,    noble 

lord. 
That  those  who  know  should  know  you." 

And  he  turned 
Her    counsel    up    and    down    within    his 

mind, 
And  found  it  true,  and  answered,  "True, 

my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me : 
What  is  it?"  and  she  told  him,  "A  red 

sleeve  370 

Broidered  with   pearls,"   and  brought   it : 

then  he  bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,  "I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to   her   face   and   filled   her  with 

delight ; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning    brought    the    yet  -  unblazoned 

shield. 
His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine: 
"Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my 

shield  380 

In  keeping  till  I  come."    "A  grace  to  me," 
She  answered,  "twice  to-day.     I  am  your 

squire !" 
Whereat    Lavaine    said,    laughing,    "Lily 

maid, 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back; 
Once,    twice,    and    thrice :    now    get    you 

hence  to  bed :" 
So  kissed  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 

hand, 
And  thus  they  moved  away :  she  stayed  a 

minute, 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate,  and 

there — 
Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious 

face  390 

Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother's  kiss — 
Paused  by  the  gateway,  standing  near  the 

shield 
In  silence,  while  she  watched  their  arms 

far-off 
Sparkle,     until     they     dipped     below     the 

downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climbed,  and  took 

the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 


Meanwhile  the  new  companions  passed 
away 

Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
downs. 

To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived  a 
knight 

Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty 
years  400 

A  hermit,  who  had  prayed,  labored  and 
prayed. 

And  ever  laboring  had  scooped  himself 

In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 

Of  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliff 
cave. 

And  cells  and  chambers :  all  were  fair 
and  dry; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows  under- 
neath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky 
roofs ; 

And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 

And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling 
showers. 

And  thither  wending,  there  that  night 
they  bode.  410 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  un- 
derground. 

And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the 
cave. 

They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and 
rode  away : 

Then  Lancelot  saying,  "Hear,  but  hold  my 
name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake," 

Abashed  Lavaine,  whose  instant  rever- 
ence, 

Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 
own  praise. 

But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "Is  it  in- 
deed?" 

And  after  muttering  "The  great  Lance- 
lot," 

At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answered, 
"One,  420 

One  have  I  seen — that  other,  our  liege 
lord. 

The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  King  of 
kings, 

Of   whom   the  people  talk   mysteriously. 

He  will  be  there — then  were  I  stricken 
blind 

That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen." 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they 
reached  the  lists 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


167 


By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 

Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half 
round 

Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass, 

Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 
who  sat  430 

Robed  in  red  samite,^  easily  to  be  known, 

Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clung. 

And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold. 

And  from  the  carvcn-work  behind  him 
crept 

Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to 
make 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of 
them 

Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innu- 
merable 

Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  them- 
selves, 439 

Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  work : 

And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set. 

Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless 
king. 

Then  Lancelot  answered  young  Lavaine 

and  said, 
"Me  you  call  great :   mine   is  the  firmer 

seat, 
The   truer   lance:    but   there   is   many   a 

youth 
Now  crescent,^  who  will  come  to  all  I  am 
And  overcome  it ;  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No    greatness,    save    it    be    some    far-off 

touch 
Of    greatness    to    know    well    I    am    not 

great : 
There  is  the  man."     And  Lavaine  gaped 

upon  him  450 

As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew ;   and  then  did  either 

side. 
They   that   assailed,   and   they   that   held 

the  lists, 
Set   lance  in  rest,   strike   spur,   suddenly 

move. 
Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,    that    a    man    far-off    might    well 

perceive — 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield — 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder 

of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 

1  samite.     Heavy  silk. 

2  crescent.     Growing  up. 


Which  were  the  weaker ;  then  he  hurled 
into  it  460 

Against  the  stronger :  little  need  to  speak 

Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory!  King,  duke, 
earl. 

Count,  baron — whom  he  smote,  he  over- 
threw. 

But   in   the   field   were   Lancelot's   kith 

and  kin, 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held 

the  lists. 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranger 

knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot;  and  one  said  to  the  other, 

"Lo! 
What  is  he?     I   do  not  mean  the   force 

alone — 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man!  470 
Is  it  not  Lancelot?"    "When  has  Lancelot 

worn  , 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know  him, 

know." 
"How   then?   who  then?"   a   fury   seized 

them  all, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
They   couched    their    spears    and    pricked 

their  steeds,   and  thus, 
Their    plumes    driv'n    backward    by    the 

wind  they  made 
In  moving,   all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North- 
sea,  480 
Green-glimmering    toward     the     summit, 

bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the 

skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark. 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 
Down-glancing    lamed    the    charger,    and 

a  spear 
Pricked  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the 

head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapped, 

and  remained. 

Then    Sir  Lavaine   did   well   and  wor- 

shipfuUy  ;3 
He   bore   a  knight  of  old   repute  to  the 

earth,  490 

And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where 

he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got, 

3  worshipfully.     Honorably. 


168 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet  en- 
dure, 

And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 

His  party, — tho'  it  seemed  half-miracle 

To  those  he  fought  with, — drave  his  kith 
and  kin, 

And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 
lists, 

Back,  ti).  the  barrier;  then  the  trumpets 
blew 

Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the 
sleeve 

Of  scarlet,  and  the  p«arls;  and  all  the 
knights,  500 

His  party,  cried  "Advance  and  take  thy 
prize 

The  diamond";  but  he  answer'd,  "Dia- 
mond me 

No  diamonds !  for  God's  love,  a  little 
air! 

Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death ! 

Hence  will  I,  and  I  charge  you,  follow 
me  not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanished  suddenly  from 

the  field 
With    young    Lavaine    into    the    poplar 

grove. 
There   from  his   charger   down   he   slid, 

and  sat. 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  "Draw  the  lance- 
head  :" 
"Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said 

Lavaine,  510 

"I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
But  he,  "I  die  already  with  it :  draw — 
Draw,"  —  and    Lavaine     drew,    and     Sir 

Lancelot  gave 
A    marvellous   great    shriek   and   ghastly 

groan, 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down 

he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swooned 

away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him 

in. 
There  stanched  his  wound;  and  there,  in 

daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wild  world's  rumor  by  the 

grove  520 

Of   poplars    with   their   noise   of    falling 

showers. 
And   ever-tremulous    aspen-trees,   he   lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the 
lists. 


His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and 

West, 
Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate 

isles. 
Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  say- 
ing to  him, 
"Lo,    Sire,   our   knight,    thro'    whom   we 

won  the  day. 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left 

his  prize 
Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 
"Heaven    hinder,"    said    the    King,    "that 
such  an  one,  530 

So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day — 
He  seemed  to  me  another  Lancelot — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lance- 
lot- 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.     Where- 
fore, rise, 

0  Gawain,  and   ride   forth  and   find  the 

knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he  be 
near. 

1  charge   you   that   you   get   at   once   to 

horse. 
And,   knights   and   kings,   there   breathes 

not  one  of  you 
Will   deem  this   prize   of   ours   is  rashly 

given : 
His    prowess    was    too    wondrous.      We 

will  do  him  540 

No  customary   honor:   since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize, 
Ourselves   will   send   it   after.     Rise  and 

take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 
And  bring  us  where  he  is,  and  how  he 

fares. 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until  ye 

find." 

So    saying,     from    the    carven    flower 

above. 
To   which   it   made   a   restless   heart,   he 

took, 
And  gave,  the  diamond :  then  from  where 

he  sat 
At    Arthur's    right,    with    smiling     face 

arose,  55o 

With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a 

Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,    surnamed    The    Courteous,    fair 

and  strong, 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 
And    Gareth,   a   good   knight,   but   there- 
withal 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


169 


Sir  Modred's  brother,  and  the  child  of  Lot, 
Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  King's  command  to  sally 

forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him 

leave 
The    banquet,   and   concourse   of    knights 

and  kings.  560 

So  all   in  wrath  he  got  to   horse  and 

went; 
While   Arthur   to    the    banquet,    dark    in 

mood. 
Passed,  thinking  "Is  it  Lancelot  who  hath 

come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of    glory,    and    hath    added    wound    to 

wound, 
And  ridd'n  away  to  die?"    So  feared  the 

King,  i 

And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there,  re- 
turned. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing 

asked, 
"Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick?"    "Nay,  lord," 

she  said. 
"And    where    is    Lancelot?"      Then    the 

Queen  amazed,  570 

"Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not  your 

prize?" 
"Nay,  but  one  like  him."    "Why,  that  like 

was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she 

knew, 
Said,    "Lord,    no    sooner   had    ye   parted 

from  us. 
Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common  talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  at 

a  touch, 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his  great 

name 
Conquered ;  and  therefore  would  he  hide 

his  name 
From  all  men,  ev'n  the  King,  and  to  this 

end 
Had    made    the    pretext   of    a   hindering 

wound,  580 

That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and 

learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decayed; 
And   added,    'Our   true   Arthur,    when   he 

learns, 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.' " 

Then  replied  the  King: 
"Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been. 


In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 
To  have  trusted   me  as  he  hath  trusted 

thee. 
Surely  his  King  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.     True, 

indeed,  590 

Albeit  I  know  my  knights   fantastical. 
So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must    needs    have    moved    my    laughter : 

now  remains 
But   little   cause    for   laughter :    his    own 

kin — 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him, 

this  !— 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon 

him; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the 

field: 
Yet  good  news  too:  for  goodly  hopes  are 

mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great 

pearls,  601 

Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 


"Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
"Thy  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that, 

she  choked, 
And    sharply   turned   about   to   hide   her 

face. 
Passed  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung 

herself 
Down    on    the    great    King's    couch,    and 

writhed  upon  it. 
And  clenched  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the 

palm. 
And  shrieked  out  "Traitor"  to  the  unhear- 

ing  wall. 
Then   flashed   into   wild  tears,    and   rose 

again. 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and 

pale.  610 


Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 

round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,   wearied  of  the 

quest. 
Touched  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar 

grove, 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat : 
Whom   glittering  in  enamelled  arms   the 

maid 
Glanced  at,  and  cried,  "What  news  from 

Camelot,  lord? 


170 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve?" 

"He  won." 
"I  knew  it,"  she  said,     "But  parted  from 

the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught  her 

breath ; 
Thro'   her   own   side   she   felt  the   sharp 

lance  go;  '  620 

Thereon    she    smote   her   hand:    wellnigh 

she  swooned : 
And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her, 

came 
The  Lord  of  Astolat  out,  to   whom  the 

Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 
Sent,   that   he   bore   the   prize   and    could 

not  find 
The    victor,    but    had    ridd'n    a    random 

round 
To   seek   him,   and   had   wearied   of   the 

search. 
To  whom  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "Bide  with 

us. 
And    ride    no    more    at    random,    noble 

Prince ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a 

shield ;  630 

This  will  he  send  or  come  for :  further- 
more 
Our    son    is    with    him ;    we    shall    hear 

anon, 
Needs  must  we  hear."    To  this  the  cour- 
teous Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it. 
And   stayed;   and   cast   his   eyes   on   fair 

Elaine  : 
Where  could  be  found  face  daintier?  then 

her  shape 
From   forehead   down   to   foot,   perfect — 

again 
From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turned : 
"Well — if  I  bide,  lo !  this  wild  flower  for 

me !"  640 

And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon  her 
With    sallying   wit,    free    flashes    from    a 

height 
Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs, 
Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  elo- 
quence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebelled     against     it,     saying     to     him, 

"Prince, 
O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left. 
Whence  you  might  learn  his  name?    Why 

slight  your  King,  650 


And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and 

prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipped^  her  at,  and 

went 
To    all    the    winds?"      "Nay,    by    mine 

head,"  said  he, 
"I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 

0  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes; 
But,  an  ye  will  it,  let  me  see  the  shield." 
And  when  the   shield  was  brought,   and 

Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crowned  with 

gold, 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh,  and 

mocked :  660 

"Right  was  the  King!  our  Lancelot!  that 

tru.;  man !" 
"And  right  was  I,"  she  answered  merrily, 

Who    dreamed    my    knight    the    greatest 

knight  of  all." 
"And  if  /  dreamed,"  said  Gawain,  "that 

you  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon!  lo,  ye 

know  it ! 
Speak  therefore:  shall  I  waste  myself  in 

vain?" 
Full  simple  was  her  answer,  "What  know 

I? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship ; 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talked  of 

love, 
Wished  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they 

talked,  670 

Meseemed,   of   what   they   knew   not;    so 

myself — 

1  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 

I  know  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 
"Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  "ye  love 

him  well, 
But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all  others 

know. 
And  whom  he  loves."     "So  be  it,"  cried 

Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away: 
But  he  pursued  her,  calling,  "Stay  a  little ! 
One  golden  minute's  grace !  he  wore  your 

sleeve :  680 

Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may  not 

name? 
Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf  at 

last? 
Nay  —  like    enow :    why    then,    far    be    it 

from  me 

I  slipped.     Let  loose  (to  attack  the  prey). 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


171 


To    cross    our    mighty    Lancelot    in    his 

loves ! 
And,  damsel,   for  I  deem  you  know   full 

well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let  me 

leave 
My  quest   with  you ;   the  diamond   also : 

here ! 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it; 
And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 
From   your   own   hand ;    and   whether   he 

love  or  not.  690 

A  diamond  is  a  diamond.     Fare  you  well 
A    thousand    times ! — a    thousand    times 

farewell ! 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 
May    meet   at   court   hereafter :    there,    I 

think. 
So   ye   will   learn   the   courtesies   of   the 

court, 
We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave. 
And  slightly  kissed  the  hand  to  which  he 

gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the  quest 
Leaped  on  his  horse,  and,  carolling  as  he 

went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away.  700 

Thence  to  the  court  he  passed ;  there 
told  the  King 

What  the  King  knew,  "Sir  Lancelot  is  the 
knight." 

And  added,  "Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I 
learnt ; 

But  failed  to  find  him,  tho'  I  rode  all 
round 

The  region:  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid 

Whose  sleeve  he  wore ;  she  loves  him ; 
and  to  her, 

Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the   truest  law, 

I  gave  the  diamond :  she  will  render  it ; 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hiding- 
place." 

The    seldom  -  frowning    King    frowned, 

and  replied,  710 

"Too    courteous    truly !    ye    shall    go    no 

more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.     Wroth,  but  all 

in  awe, 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without 

a  word, 
Lingered  that  other,   staring  after  him ; 


Then    shook    his    hair,    strode    off,    and 

buzzed  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
All  ears  were  pricked  at  once,  all  tongues 

were  loosed : 
"The  maid  of  Astolat  loves   Sir  Lance- 
lot, 720 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some    read    the    King's    face,    some    the 

Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but 

most 
Predoomed^  her  as  unworthy.     One  old 

dame 
Came   suddenly   on  the   Queen   with   the 

sharp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  before. 
But     sorrowing     Lancelot     should     have 

stooped  so  low. 
Marred  her   friend's  aim  with  pale  tran- 
quillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 
Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine-days'  wonder 

flared :  730 

Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or 

thrice 
Forgot    to    drink    to    Lancelot    and    the 

Queen. 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled    at    each   other,    while    the    Queen, 

who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid,  felt  the  knot 
Climb   in   her  throat,   and   with   her   feet 

unseen 
Crushed  the  wild  passion  out  against  the 

floor 
Beneath    the    banquet,    where    the    meats 

became 
As   wormwood,    and    she   hated   all    who 

pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat,     740 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The    one-day-seen    Sir    Lancelot    in    her 

heart. 
Crept    to    her    father,    while    he    mused 

alone. 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and 

said, 
"Father,    you    call    me    wilful,    and    the 

fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and 

now. 
Sweet    father,    will    you    let   me    lose    my 

wits?" 
"Nay."    said    he,    "surely."      "Wherefore, 

let  me  hence," 

I  Prsdoomed.     Prejudged. 


172 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


She  answered,  "and  find  out  our  dear  La- 

vaine." 
"Ye  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear  La- 

vaine :  750 

Bide,"    answered    he:    "we    needs    must 

hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other,"     "Ay,"  she 

said, 
"And   of   that   other,    for   I   needs    must 

hence 
And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
And  with   mine  own  hand  give  his   dia- 
mond to  him. 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest 

to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Death-pale,   for   lack   of   gentle   maiden's 

aid.  760 

The   gentler-born   the   maiden,   the   more 

bound. 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye  know, 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens:  let 

me  hence, 
I   pray  you."     Then  her   father  nodding 

said, 
"Ay,  ay,  the  diamond:  wit*  ye  well,  my 

child, 
Right   fain   were  I  to   learn  this  knight 

were  whole, 
Being  our  greatest:   yea,   and  you  must 

give  it — 
And  sure  I  think  this   fruit  is  hung  too 

high 
For    any    mouth    to    gape    for    save    a 

queen's —  770 

Nay,   I   mean  nothing:   so  then,  get  you 

gone. 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,   her   suit   allowed,   she   slipped 

away, 
And   while  she  made  her  ready   for  her 

ride, 
Her  father's  latest  word  hummed  in  her 

ear, 
"Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And    changed    itself,    and   echoed    in   her 

heart, 
"Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it 

off. 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us ; 
And   in   her  heart   she   answered   it   and 

said,  781 

I  ■wit.     Know. 


"What  matter,  so  I  helped  him  back  to 
Hfe?" 

Then  far  away,  with  good  Sir  Torre  for 
guide. 

Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
downs 

To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 

Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 

Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 

For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers : 

Whom  when  she  saw,  "Lavaine,"  she 
cried,  "Lavaine, 

How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot?"  He 
amazed,  790 

"Torre  and  Elaine!  why  here?  Sir 
Lancelot ! 

How  know  ye  my  lord's  name  is  Lance- 
lot?" 

But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her 
tale. 

Then  turned  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his 
moods 

Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued 
gate. 

Where  Arthur's  wars  were  rendered  mys- 
tically. 

Passed  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin, 

His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Came- 
lot; 

And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 

Led  to  the  caves :  there  first  she  saw  the 
casque  800 

Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall:  her  scarlet 
sleeve, 

Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls 
away. 

Streamed  from  it  still ;  and  in  her  heart 
she  laughed. 

Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his 
helm, 

But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tour- 
ney in  it. 

And  when  they  gained  the  cell  wherein 
he  slept. 

His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty  hands 

Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 

Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them 
move. 

Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek, 
unshorn,  810 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself. 

Uttered  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 

The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 

Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he 
rolled  his  eyes, 

Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him, 
saying, 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


173 


"Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the 

King:" 
His  eyes  glistened :  she  fancied,  "Is  it  for 

me?" 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the 

tale 
Of  King  and   Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 

the  quest 
Assigned   to   her   not   worthy   of   it,   she 

knelt  820 

Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the 

child 
That  does  the  task  assigned,  he  kissed  her 

face. 
At   once   she   slipped   like   water   to   the 

floor. 
"Alas,"  he  said,  "your  ride  hath  wearied 

you. 
Rest  must  you  have."    "No  rest  for  me," 

she  said; 
"Nay,   for  near  you,   fair  lord,   I  am  at 

rest." 
What  might  she  mean  by  that?  his  large 

black  eyes. 
Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon 

her,  830 

Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 
In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face; 
And  Lancelot  looked,  and  was  perplexed 

in  mind, 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more ; 
But  did  not  love  the  color ;  woman's  love, 
Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  turned 
Sighing,  and  feigned  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the 

fields. 
And    passed    beneath    the    weirdly-sculp- 
tured gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ;      840 
There    bode    the    night :    but    woke    with 

dawn,  and  passed 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields. 
Thence  to  the  cave :  so  day  by  day  she 

passed 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him, 
And  likewise  many  a  night :  and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho'  he  called  his  wound  a  little 

hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at 

times 
Brain-feverous    in    his    heat    and    agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous,    even    he :    but    the    meek 

maid  850 


Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse. 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child, 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first 

fall. 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 
Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skilled  in  all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time, 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his 

hfe. 
And    the    sick    man    forgot    her    simple 

blush. 
Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 

Elaine,  860 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly. 
And  loved  her  with  all   love   except  the 

love 
Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their 

best. 
Closest  and   sweetest,   and  had   died  the 

death 
In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her  first 
She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other 

world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man;  but  now 
The   shackles   of   an  old   love   straitened^ 

him,  870 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood. 
And    faith    unfaithful^   kept   him    falsely 

true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sickness 

made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not 

live: 
For  when   the  blood   ran  lustier  in   him 

again, 
Full  often  the  bright  image  of  one  face, 
Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart. 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 
Then   if   the   maiden,   while  that   ghostly 

grace^  880 

Beamed  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answered 

not. 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right 

well 
What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but  what 

this  meant 
She   knew   not,   and   the    sorrow   dimmed 

her  sight. 
And   drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the 

fields 

1  straitened.     Restrained. 

2  faith  unfaithful.     Disloyal  loyalty. 

3  ghostly  grace.     Spirit-like  beauty. 


174 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Far  in^o  the  rich  city,  where  alone 

She  murmured,  "Vain,  in  vain :  it  cannot 

be. 
He  will  not  love  me :  how  then  ?  must  I 

die?" 
Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird. 
That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few 

notes,  890 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies   to  hear   it,   so   the   simple   maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "Must  I 

die?" 
And  now  to  right  she  turned,  and  now 

to  left. 
And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest; 
And     "Him     or    death,"     she     muttered, 

"death  or  him," 
Again    and    like    a    burthen,^      "Him    or 

death," 

But   when    Sir    Lancelot's    deadly   hurt 

was  whole. 
To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three.    900 

self 
There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet 
In  that  wherein  she  deemed  she   looked 

her  best. 
She   came   before   Sir   Lancelot,    for   she 

thought 
"H  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes. 
If    not,    the    victim's    flowers    before    he 

fall." 
And  Lancelot  ever  pressed  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of 

him 
For  her  own  self  or  hers;  "and  do  not 

shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true 

heart ; 
Such  service  have  ye  done  me  that  I  make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 

am  I  911 

In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 
But  like  a  ghost   without   the   power  to 

speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her 

wish. 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 
Till  he  should  learn  it;  and  one  morn  it 

chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  said,   "Delay   no  longer,   speak  your 

wish,  919 

Seeing  I  go  to-day:"  then  out  she  brake: 
"Going?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 
I  burthen.     Refrain. 


And   I    must   die   for   want   of   one   bold 

word." 
"Speak :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said,  "is 

yours." 
Then     suddenly     and     passionately     she 

spoke : 
"I  have  gone  mad.     I  love  you :  let  me 

die." 
"Ah,  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "what  is 

this?" 
And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms. 
"Your  love."  she  said,  "your  love — to  be 

your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answered,  "Had  I  chosen  to 

wed,  929 

I  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine : 
But   now    there    never    will    be    wife   of 

mine." 
"No,   no,"   she  cried,  "I  care  not  to  be 

wife. 
But  to  be  with  you  still,^  to  see  your  face. 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro'  the 

world." 
And  Lancelot  answered,  "Nay,  the  world, 

the  world, 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To    interpret    ear    and    eye,    and    such    a 

tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation — nay. 
Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  brother's 

love. 
And  your  good  father's  kindness."     And 

she  said,  940 

"Not   to   be   with   you,   not   to   see   your 

face — 
Alas    for    me    then,    my    good    days    are 

done." 
"Nay,    noble    maid,'    he    answered,    "ten 

times  nay! 
This  is  not  love :  but  love's  first  flash  in 

youth, 
Most  common :   yea,   I  know   it  of   mine 

own  self : 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own 

self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of 

life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your 

age: 
And  then  will  I, — for  true  you  are  and 

sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood, — 
More   specially   should  your  good   knight 

be  poor,  951 

Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even   to  the   half   my   realm    beyond   the 

seas, 

3  still.     Always. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


175 


So^  that  would  make  you  happy :  further- 
more, 

Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  ye  were  my 
blood, 

In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight. 

This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your 
sake, 

And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blushed  nor  shook,  but  death- 
ly-pale 
Stood    grasping   what    was    nearest,    then 
replied :  q6o 

"Of  all  this  will  I  nothing";  and  so  fell, 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her 
tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black 

walls  of  yew 
Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father :  "Ay, 

a  flash, 
I   fear   me,   that   will   strike   my  blossom 

dead. 
Too  courteous  are  ye,  fair  Lord  Lancelot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"That    were   against   me :    what   I   can   I 

will"; 
And  there  that  day  remained,  and  toward 

even  970 

Sent  for  his  shield :  full  meekly  rose  the 

maid, 
Stripped  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 

shield ; 
Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon  the 

stones. 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and 

looked 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve 

had  gone. 
And    Lancelot    knew    the    little    clinking 

sound ; 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking 

at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved  his 

hand,  979 

Nor  bad  farewell,  but  sad!y  rode  away. 
This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat : 
His  very  shield  was  gone ;  only  the  case, 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 

I  So.     It. 


But   still   she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 

formed 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured 

wall. 
Then    came    her    father,    saying    in    low 

tones, 
"Have     comfort,"     whom     she     greeted 

quietly. 
Then  came   her  brethren  saying,   "Peace 

to  thee, 
Sweet  sister,"   whom   she  answered   with 

all  calm.  990 

But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again, 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant 

field 
Approaching   thro'   the   darkness,   called; 

the  owls 
Wailing   had   power   upon   her,    and    she 

mixed 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of    evening,    and    the    moanings    of    the 

wind. 

And   in  those   days   she   made   a   little 

song. 
And  called  her  song  "The  Song  of  Love 

and  Death," 
And    sang   it :    sweetly   could    she   make- 

and  sing. 

"Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain, 

in  vain;  1000 

And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to 

pain: 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

"Love,  art  thou  sweet?  then  bitter  death 
must  be : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter;  sweet   is  death  to 
me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

"Sweet   love,   that   seems   not   made  to 
fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  love- 
less clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

"I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could 

be; 

I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for 

me;  loio 

Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die." 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice, 
and  this. 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 

2  make.     Compose. 


176 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers  heard, 

and  thought 
With  shuddering,  "Hark  the  Phantom  of 

the  house 
That  ever   shrieks  before  a   death,"  and 

called 
The    father,   and   all   three   in   hurry   and 

fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo!  the  blood-red  light  of 

dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling,  "Let  me 

die!" 

As   when   we   dwell   upon   a   word   we 

know,  1020 

Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes    a   wonder,    and   we    know    not 

why, 
So    dwelt   the    father   on   her    face,    and 

thought 
"Is    this    Elaine?"   till    back   the    maiden 

fell, 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and 

lay, 
Speaking   a   still   good-morrow   with   her 

eyes. 
At  last  she  said,  "Sweet  brothers,  yester- 
night 
I  seemed  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 

woods, 
And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with  the 

flood  1030 

Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 
Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it :  there  ye  fixed 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet   I   cried   because   ye   would   not 

pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  King. 
And  yet  ye  would  not;   but  this  night  •! 

dreamed 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 
And  then  I  said,  'Now  shall  I  have  my 

will :'  1040 

And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  re- 
mained. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood. 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  King. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all. 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at 

me; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at 

me. 
And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at 

me; 


Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand   farewells 

to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went,  nor  bade  me 

one :  1050 

And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and  my 

love. 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me, 
And    all    the   gentle    court    will    welcome 

me, 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest  1" 

"Peace,"  said  her  father,  "O  my  child, 

ye  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to 

go 
So  far,  being  sick?  and  wherefore  would 

ye  look 
On  this  proud   fellow  again,  who  scorns 

us  all?" 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave 

and  move,  1059 

And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
"I  never  loved  him :  an  I  meet  with  him, 
1  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him 

down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him 

dead. 
For    this    discomfort    he   hath    done   the 

house." 

To  whom  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
"Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be 

wroth. 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it   is  mine  to  love 
Him  of   all   men   who  seems   to   me  the 

highest."  1070 

"Highest?"  the  father  answer'd,  echo- 
ing "highest?" 

(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her) 
"nay, 

Daughter,  1  know  not  what  you  call  the 
highest; 

But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know 
it, 

He  ,loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open 
shame : 

And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame; 

If  this  te  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low?" 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat : 
"Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am 
I  1079 

For  anger :  these  are  slanders :  never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


177 


He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a 

foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One   peerless,    without   stain :    so   let   me 

pass, 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you, 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return : 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live. 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own 

desire ;  1089 

For  if  I  could  believe  the  things  you  say 
I   should  but  die   the   sooner;   wherefore 

cease, 
Sweet    father,    and    bid    call    the    ghostly 

man! 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive^  me  clean,  and 

die." 


And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man 
alone  1120 

Go  with  me;  he  can  steer  and  row,  and 
he 

Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the 
doors." 

She  ceased :  her  father  promised ;  where- 
upon 

She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deemed 
her  death 

Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 

But  ten  slow  mornings  passed,  and  on  the 
eleventh 

Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 

And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she 
died. 

So  that  day  there  was  dole^  in  Astolat. 


So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come  and 

gone, 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as   for  sin   for- 
given, 
Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word;  and  when  he 

asked 
"Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord? 
Then  will  I  bear  it  gladly" ;  she  replied, 
"For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the 

world,  1 100 

But   I   myself   must  bear  it."     Then   he 

wrote 
The  letter  she  devised ;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "O  sweet  father,  tender  and 

true, 
Deny   me    not,"   she   said — "ye   never  yet 
Denied  my  fancies — this,  however  strange, 
My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my 

heart. 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died 
For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the 

Queen's  mi 

For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own 

self. 
And  none  ot  you  can  speak   for  me  so 

well. 

1  ghostly  man.     Priest. 

2  shrive.     Confess. 


But    when    the    next    sun    brake    from 

underground,  1130 

Then,    those    two    brethren    slowly    with 

bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Passed  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that 

shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the 

barge. 
Palled  all   its  length   in  blackest   samite, 

lay. 
There    sat   the    lifelong   creature   of   the 

house, 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck. 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  face. 
So  those  two  brethren   from  the  chariot 

took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her 

bed,  1 140 

Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings,* 
And  kissed  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to 

her 
"Sister,  farewell  for  ever,"  and  again 
"Farewell,    sweet    sister,"    parted    all    in 

tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the 

dead. 
Oared   by   the   dumb,    went   upward   with 

the  flood — 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter — all  her  bright  hair  streaming 

down — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn   to  her  waist,  and  she  herself   in 

white  1151 

3  dole.     Mourning. 

4  See  line  9. 


178 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured 

face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead, 
But    fast    asleep,    and    lay    as    tho'    she 

smiled. 

That   day   Sir  Lancelot   at   the   palace 

craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift, 
Hard-won    and    hardly   won    with   bruise 

and  blow, 
With   deaths   of   others,   and   almost   his 

own, 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds :  for 

he  saw  1160 

One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the 

Queen 
Bearing    his    wish,    whereto    the    Queen 

agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seemed   her  statue,  but 

that  he. 
Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kissed  her 

feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The   shadow   of   some    piece   of    pointed 

lace, 
In   the   Queen's    shadow,   vibrate   on   the 

walls, 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly  heart. 

All  in  an  oriel^  on  the  summer  side, 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the 

stream,  1171 

They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  uttered, 

"Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my  joy. 
Take,   what   I   had   not   won    except    for 

you, 
These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  mak- 
ing them 
An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth, 
Or    necklace    for    a    neck    to    which    the 

swan's 
Is   tawnier  than  her  cygnet's :   these   are 

words : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship  of 

it  1 180 

Words,   as   we   grant  grief   tears.     Such 

sin  in  words. 
Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon :  but,  my 

Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and 

wife, 

I  oriel.     Portico. 


Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect :  let  rumors  be : 
When   did   not   rumors   fly?   these,   as   I 

trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turned  away, 

the  Queen  1190 

Brake    from    the    vast    oriel-embowering 

vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them 

oflf, 
Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was 

green ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  passive 

hand 
Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied : 

"It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than    you    believe    me,    Lancelot    of   the 

Lake. 
Our  bond   is   not  the  bond  of  man  and 

wife. 
This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill,    1200 
It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and 

wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I    did    acknowledge    nobler.      What    are 

these? 
Diamonds  for  me !  they  had  been  thrice 

their  worth 
Being  your  gift,   had  you  not  lost  your 

own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me! 
For  her !  for  your  new  fancy.     Only  this 
Grant  me,   I   pray   you :   have  your   joys 

apart.  1210 

I   doubt  not  that,  however  changed,  you 

keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 
Would    shun    to   break   those   bounds   of 

courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur's  Queen  I  move  and 

rule: 
So  cannot   speak   my  mind.     An  end  to 

this! 
A  strange  one!  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So   pray   you,   add   my   diamonds  to  her 

pearls ; 
Deck  her  with  these;  tell  her,  she  shines 

me  down : 
An    armlet    for    an    arm    to    which    the 

Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck  1220 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


179 


O  as  much  fairer — as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was    richer    than    these    diamonds — hers 

not  mine — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself, 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my 

will- 
She  shall  not  have  them." 


Saying  which  she  seized, 
And,   thro'   the   casement    standing    wide 

for  heat, 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flashed,  and 

smote  the  stream. 
Then    from   the   smitten   surface   flashed, 

as  it  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  passed 

away. 
Then   while   Sir   Lancelot   leant,    in   half 

disdain  1230 

At   love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 

ledge. 
Close    underneath    his    eyes,    and    right 

across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  passed  the 

barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

But    the    wild    Queen,    who    saw    not, 

burst  away 
To   weep   and    wail    in    secret;    and   the 

barge. 
On  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There    two    stood    armed,    and    kept    the 

door;  to  whom. 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier, 
Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes 

that  asked  1241 

"What  is  it?"  but  that  oarsman's  haggard 

face, 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye   from  broken 

rocks 
On    some   cliff-side,    appalled    them,    and 

they  said, 
"He  is  enchanted,  cannttrt  speak — and  she. 
Look  how   she   sleeps — the   Fairy   Queen, 

so  fair ! 
Yea,  but  how  pale!  what  are  they?  flesh 

and  blood? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  Fairyland? 
For    some    do    hold    our    Arthur    cannot 

die,  1250 

But  that  he  passes  into  Fairyland." 

While  thus   they  babbled  of  the  King, 
the  King 


Came  girt  with  knights :  then  turned  the 

tongueless   man 
From  the  half- face  to  the  full  eye,  and 

ro.se 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  wondered 

at  her. 
And   Lancelot  later  came  and   mused   at 

her,  1260 

And   last   the   Queen   herself,   and   pitied 

her: 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
Stooped,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ;  this 

was  all : 

"Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake, 
I,  sometime  called  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return, 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my 

death.  1269 

And  therefore  to  our  Lady  Guinevere, 
And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan : 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too.  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read; 
And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and  dames 
Wept,  looking  often   from  his   face  who 

read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times. 
So  touched  were  they,  half-thinking  that 

her  hps. 
Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them 

all :  1280 

"My  lord  liege   Arthur,   and   all  ye  that 

hear. 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's 

death 
Right  heavy  am  I ;  for  good  she  was  and 

true, 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again; 
Not    at    my    years,    however    it    hold    in 

youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I 

gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love: 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony. 


180 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  him- 
self 1291 

Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and 
use. 

To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 

Against  my  nature :  what  I  could,  I  did. 

I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell; 

Tho',  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would 
have  died, 

I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough 
use, 

And  helped  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after 

storm) 
"Ye  might  at  least  have  done  her  so  much 

grace,  1300 

Fair  lord,  as  would  have  helped  her  from 

her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met,  and 

hers  fell, 
He  adding: 

"Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could  not 

be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the  world, 

she  asked ; 
It  could  not  be.    I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  darken 

down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward   one   more   worthy  of   her — then 

would  I,  1309 

More  specially  were  he  she  wedded  poor, 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In   mine  own   realm   beyond  the   narrow 

seas. 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance :  more  than 

this 
I  could  not;  this  she  would  not,  and  she 

died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answered,  "O  my 

knight. 
It  will  be  to  thy  worship,^  as  my  knight. 
And    mine,    as    head    of    all    our    Table 

Round, 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all 

the  realm 

Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 

The    marshalled    Order    of    their    Table 

Round,  1321 

And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 

I  worship.     Honor. 


The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown. 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies. 
And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a  queen. 
And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her  comely 

head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  "Let  her 

tomb 
Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon, 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand.    1331 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For   all  true   hearts  be  blazoned  on  her 

tomb 
In   letters   gold  and   azure!"   which   was 

wrought 
Thereafter;  but  when  now  the  lords  and 

dames 
And  people,  from  the  high  door  stream- 
ing, brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who     marked    Sir    Lancelot    where    he 

moved  apart. 
Drew  near,  and  sighed  in  passing,  "Lance- 
lot, 
Forgive  me;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 
He    answered,    with    his    eyes    upon    the 
ground,  1341 

"That  is  love's  curse;  pass  on,  my  Queen, 

forgiven." 
But  Arthur,  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows. 
Approached  him,  and  with   full  affection 
said, 

"Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom 

I  have 
Most  joy  and  most  afiiance,2  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watched  thee  at 

the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised 

knight,  1349 

And  let  the  younger  and  unskilled  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name, 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
Made  to  be  loved;  but  now  I  would  to 

God, 
Seeing  the  homeless  trouble  in  thine  eyes, 
Thou    couldst    have    loved    this    maiden, 

shaped,  it  seems, 
By   God    for   thee   alone,   and    from   her 

face, 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead. 
Delicately  pure   and   marvellously   fair, 
Who    might    have    brought    thee,    now    a 

lonely  man  1359 

Wifeless    and   heirless,    noble   issue,    sons 
a  a  fiance.     Confidence. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


181 


Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame, 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake." 

Then    answered    Lancelot :    "Fair    she 

was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 
To  doubt  her   fairness   were  to   want  an 

eye, 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 

heart — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not  be 

bound." 

"Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest,"  said 

the  King. 
"Let  love  be   free;   free   love  is   for  the 

best :  1370 

And,   after  heaven,   on   our  dull   side  of 

death, 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a  love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness?  yet  thee 
She  failed  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think, 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I  know." 

And  Lancelot  answered  nothing,  but  he 

went. 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove,  and  watched 
The   high    reed   wave,   and   lifted   up   his 

eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  mov- 
ing down,  1380 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  himself:   "Ah,   simple  heart   and 

sweet. 
Ye  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a  love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.     Pray  for 

thy  soul? 
Ay,   that   will   I.     Farewell   too — now   at 

last- 
Farewell,    fair   lily.     'Jealousy    in    love?' 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous 

pride? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love. 
May    not    your    crescent^    fear    for    name 

and  fame 
Speak,  as  it  waxes,^  of  a  love  that  wanes? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to 

me?  1391 

Mine  own   name   shames  me,    seeming   a 

reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Caught    from    his    mother's    arms  —  the 

wondrous  one 

1  crescent.     Growing. 

2  waxes.     Increases. 


Who  passes  thro'  the  vision  of  the  night — 
She     chanted     snatches     of     mysterious 

hymns 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters;  eve   and 

morn 
She   kissed   me,   saying,   'Thou   art    fair, 

my  child. 
As  a  king's  son,'  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere.^ 
Would  she  had  drowned  me  in  it,  wher- 
e'er it  be!  1401 
For  what  am  I  ?  what  profits  me  my  name 
Of  greatest  knight?     I  fought  for  it,  and 

have  it : 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ;  to  lose  it,  pain ; 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me:  but  what  use 

in  it? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin 

known? 
Or    sin    seem    less,    the    sinner    seeming 

great  ? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart!     I  needs  must 

break 
These    bonds    that    so    defame    me:    not 

without  1410 

She  wills   it:   would  I,   if  she  willed  it? 

nay. 
Who  knows?  but  if  I  would  not,  then  may 

God, 
I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 
And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere. 
Among    the    tumbled    fragments    of    the 

hills." 

So  groaned  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful 
pain. 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 

(i8S9) 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[This  is  the  conclusion  of  the  Idylls  of  the 
King;  for  the  significance,  see  the  note  at  the 
beginning  of  Gareth  and  Lynette.  Lancelot  had 
fled  from  Arthur's  court  to  his  own  land,  be- 
cause of  his  guilt,  and  the  wicked  knight  Modred 
had  usurped  the  kingdom  while  Arthur  was  in 
pursuit.] 

That  Story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
First    made    and    latest    left    of    all    the 
knights. 


3  mere.     Lake. 


182 


POEMS   OF  THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than 

a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new   faces,  other 

minds. 

For  on  their  march  to  westward,  Bed- 

ivere, 
Who  slowly  paced  among  the  slumbering 

host. 
Heard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the 

King: 

"I   found   Him  in  the  shining  of  the 

stars, 
I   marked  Him  in  the  flowering  of  His 

fields,  10 

But  in  his  ways  with  men  I  find  Him  not. 
I  waged  His  wars,  and  now  I  pass  and 

die. 
O  me!  for  why  is  all  around  us  here 
As    if    some    lesser    god    had    made    the 

world, 
But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he  would. 
Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  beyond. 
And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful? 
Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly  fair. 
But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense  and 

dim. 
And  have  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is :    20 
Perchance,    because   we    see    not   to    the 

close ; — 
For  I,  being  simple,*  thought  to  work  His 

will. 
And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword  in 

vain ; 
And  all  whereon  I  leaned  in  wife  and 

friend 
Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  and  all  my  realm 
Reels  back  into  the  beast,^  and  is  no  more. 
My  God,  thou  hast  forgotten  me  in  my 

death : 
Nay — God   my   Christ — I   pass   but   shall 

not  die." 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in  the 
west. 

There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain 
killed  30 

In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 
blown 

Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 

Went  shrilling,  "Hollow,  hollow  all  de- 
light ! 

Hail,  King!  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 
away. 

I  simple.     Foolish. 

a  the  beast.     Primitive  evil  and  violence. 


Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind. 
And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  delight." 
And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that 

change 
Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their 

way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind 

the  dream  40 

Shrilled;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim 

cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills. 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sacked  by  night, 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with 

wail 
Pass  to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke  and 

called, 
"Who  spake?     A  dream.     O  light'  upon 

the  wind, 
Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice — are  these 

dim  cries 
Thine?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste 

and  wild 
Mourn,   knowing   it   will   go   along   with 

me?" 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and 

spake :  5° 

"O  me,  my  King,  let  pass  whatever  will, 

'  Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the 

field; 
But   in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 

cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
For  ever:  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 

death 
Is  Gawaiw,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him, 

but  rise — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west, 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and 

knights  60 

Once  thine,   whom  thou  hast  loved,   but 

grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and 

thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for 

the  King. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove 
in  youth, 

3  light.     Cf.  line  56. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


183 


And  brake  the  petty  kings,   and   fought 

with  Rome, 
Or  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 

wall, 
And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.    Ill  doom 

is  mine  70 

To    war    against    my    people    and    my 

knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  him- 
self. 
And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me  once, 

the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to 

me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 
Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  I 

saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury.i 
Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then   rose    the    King   and    moved   his 

host  by  night, 
And  ever  pushed  Sir  Modred,  league  by 

league,  80 

Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonesse^ — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again; 
Where    fragments    of    forgotten    peoples 

dwelt, 
And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a  coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more. 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  King ; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light 

of  heaven  90 

Burned  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year, 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they 

closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

west. 
A  deathwhite  mist   slept  over  sand  and 

sea: 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 

it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was 

cold 
With  formless  fear;  and  ev'n  on  Arthur 

fell 
Confusion,   since   he   saw   not   whom   he 

fought. 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the 

mist,  100 

1  His  wife  Guinevere,  in  a  convent  at  Almesbury, 
where  she  had  prostrated  herself  before  him  in 
penitence. 

2  Lyonesse.  The  extreme  southwestern  portion 
of  Britain. 


And    friend    slew    friend,    not    knowing 

whom  he  slew ; 
And    some    had    visions    out    of    golden 

youth, 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle ;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base, 
And   chance   and   craft    and   strength    in 

single  fights. 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,    and    the    splintering    spear,    the 

hard  mail  hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands, 

the  crash 
Of    battleaxes    on    shattered   helms,    and 

shrieks  no 

After   the    Christ,   of   those   who   falling 

down 
Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the 

mist ; 
And   shouts   of  heathen   and  the   traitor 

knights. 
Oaths,   insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blas- 
phemies. 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of  the 

lungs 
In  that  close  mist,   and  cryings   for  the 

light, 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the 

dead. 

Last,   as  by   some  one   deathbed   after 

wail 
Of    suffering,    silence    follows,    or    thro' 

death 
Or   deathlike   swoon,   thus   over   all   that 

shore,  120 

Save   for   some  whisper  of  the   seething 

seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell;  but  when  the  dolorous 

day 
Grew    drearier    toward    twilight    falling, 

came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and 

blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 

tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  King  glanced  across 

the  field 
Of  battle:  but  no  man  was  moving  there; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon, 
Nor  yet  of  heathen ;  only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and 

down  131 

Tumbling    the    hollow     helmets     of    the 

fallen. 


184 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  shivered  brands  that  once  had  fought 

with  Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vere, 
And   whiter  than   the   mist  that  all   day 

long 
Had    held   the   field   of    battle   was   the 

King: 

"Hearest    thou    this    great    voice    that 

shakes  the  world, 
And   wastes   the   narrow   realm   whereon 

we  move,  140 

And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for 

me? — 
O   Bedivere,   for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am. 
Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  I  be  King. 
Behold,    I    seem    but    King    among    the 

dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere :  "My 

King, 
King  everywhere!  and  so  the  dead  have 

kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship^  thee  as  King. 
Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I  live 
Who  love  thee;  but  who  hates  thee,  he 

that  brought  151 

The    heathen    back    among    us,    yonder 

stands, 
Modred,  unharmed,  the  traitor  of  mine 

house." 

Then  spake  the  King:  "My  house  hath' 

been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house 
Who   hath   but   dwelt   beneath   one   roof 

with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my 

vows, 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  owned 

me  King. 
And   well   for  thee,   saying  in   my   dark 

hour, 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath 

failed,  160 

That  quick^  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for 

King. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry; 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt  thou 

see 

I  worship.     Honor, 
a  quick.     Alive. 


Yet,  ere  I  pass."    And  uttering  this  the 

King 
Made  at  the  man :  then  Modred  smote  his 

liege 
Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a  heathen 

sword 
Had   beaten   thin;   while   Arthur   at   one 

blow. 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he 

fell. 

So   all   day   long  the   noise    of   battle 

rolled  170 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man. 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonesse  about  their  lord. 
King  Arthur.     Then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a   dark  strait^  of  barren 

land: 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay   a   great   water,   and   the   moon   was 

full.  180 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The     goodliest     fellowship     of     famous 

knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They    sleep — the    men   I    loved.     I    think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 
Delight  our  souls   with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,   as  in  the  days   that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I   made, — 
Tho*   Merlin   sware   that   I   should  come 

again  191 

To  rule  once  more;  but,  let  what  will  be, 

be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro*  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand*  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride :   for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the;  bosom  of  the  lake, 

3  strait.     Isthmus. 

4  brand.     Sword. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


185 


Clothed  in  white  samite,^  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
Holding   the    sword — and   how    I    rowed 
across  200 

And   took   it,   and   have   worn   it,   like   a 

king; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known: 
But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere:^ 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 
me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus. 
Aidless,    alone,    and    smitten    thro'    the 

helm —  209 

A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man ; 
Yet  I  thy  hest^  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 

word." 

So  saying,   from  the   ruined  shrine  he 

stepped, 
And   in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,   chill,   with   flakes   of    foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excali- 
bur, 220 
And    o'er    him,    drawing    it,    the    winter 

moon. 
Brightening  the   skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the 

hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks. 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes   were   dazzled  as   he 

stood. 
This    way   and   that    dividing   the    swift 

mind. 
In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed     230 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 

1  samite.     Silk. 

2  mere.     Lake. 

3  hest.     Command. 


That    whistled    stiff    and    dry    about    the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

"Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which 
I  gave? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast 
heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 
"I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To   whom   replied   King  Arthur,    faint 

and  pale :  240 

"Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy 

name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand. 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again. 
As  thou  art   lief^  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word." 

Then    went    Sir    Bedivere    the    second 

time  250 

Across  the    ridge,   and   paced   beside   the 

mere, 
Counting    the    dewy    pebbles,     fixed     in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 

"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 

Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 

Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the 
earth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 
many  men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 
were  done?  260 

What  harm,  undone?  Deep  harm  to  dis- 
obey. 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 

Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  de- 
mand 

4  lief.     Beloved. 


186 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  shows  not  what  he 

does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt?     But  were  this 

kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings, 
Some   one  might  show   it  at  a  joust  of 

arms,  270 

Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought    by    the    lonely    maiden   of    the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So    might    some   old    man    speak    in   the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But   now    much   honor  and   much    fame 

were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  con- 
ceit, ^ 
And.  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King.  280 

Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    breathing 
heavily : 
"What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast 
heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag. 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom   replied  King   Arthur,  much 

in  wrath : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!    Woe  is  me! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widowed   of  the  power  in   his  eye 
That  bowed   the   will.     I   see  thee  what 

thou  art,  291 

For  thou,  the  latest -left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 

hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
I  conceit.     Thought. 


Then   quickly   rose   Sir  Bedivere,   and 

ran,  301 

And,    leaping    down    the    ridges    lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutched  the 

sword. 
And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.    The 

great  brand 
Made   lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon, 
And    flashing    round    and    round,     and 

whirled  in  an  arch, 
Shot    like   a   streamer   of   the    northern 

morn,2 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By   night,   with   noises  of  the   Northern 

Sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipped  the   surface,   rose  an 

arm  311 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  Drand- 

ished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then     spoke     King     Arthur,     drawing 

thicker  breath: 
"Now  see   I   by  thine  eyes  that  this   is 

done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 

or  seen?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  iJedi- 
vere: 

"Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 
gems  320 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw. 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 
die, 

Nor  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 

So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheel- 
ing him ; 

But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brand- 
ished him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing hard :  330 
3  northern  morn.     Aurora  Borealis. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


187 


"My   end    draws   nigh;    'tis   time   that    I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 

weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;*  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 

die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 

rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And   would   have  spoken,   but  he   found 

not  words ;  340 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one 

knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  langfuid 

hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs. 

But,  as  he  walked,  King  Arthur  panted 

hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sighed 

the  King, 
Muttering    and    murmuring    at    his    ear, 

"Quick,  quick ! 
1  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge. 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walked,  350 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard   the   deep   behind   him,   and   a 

cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like 

a  goad. 
Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

Tight 
The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His   feet   on  juts  of   slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten    with    the    dint    of    armed 

heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo!  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 
barge,  361 

Dark  as   a   funeral   scarf   from   stem   to 
stern, 

I  margin.     Shore. 


Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — 

by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold:  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes,  370 

Or  hath  come,   since  the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmured  Arthur,  "Place  me  in 

the  barge." 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And    loosed    the    shattered    casque,    and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face 

was  white  380 

And    colorless,    and    like    the    withered 

moon 
Smote  b>  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses^  dashed 

with  drops 
Of   onset;    and    the    light   and   lustrous 

curls — 
I'hat  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High     from     the     dais  -  throne   —   were 

parched  with  dust; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose. 
Mixed    with    the    knightly    growth    that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest,  390 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot    thro'    the    lists    at    Camelot,    and 

chargea 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold   Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 
"Ah !   my  Lord  Arthur,   whither   shall  I 
go? 
3  luisses.     Thigh-armor. 


188 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes? 
For   now   I    see   the   true   old   times   are 

dead, 
When    every    morning    brought    a    noble 

chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a   noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led  400 

The  holy  Elders^  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dis- 
solved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world, 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among    new    men,    strange    faces,    other 

minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 

barge : 
"The  old  order  changeth,   yielding  place 

to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world.  410 

Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I   have  lived  my  life,   and   that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure!  but 

thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again. 
Pray    for    my    soul.      More    things    are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain. 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer  420 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 

them  friend? 
For   so  the   whole  round  earth  is  every 

way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

God. 
But   now    farewell.    I    am    going   a   long 

way 
With  these  thou   seest — if  indeed  I   go 
(For    all    my    mind    is    clouded    with    a 

doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where    falls    not    hail,    or    rain,    or    any 

snow, 

I  Eldrrs.     Wise  men  (of  the  Nativity). 


Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 

Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard 
lawns  430 

And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  sum- 
mer sea, 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 

Ruflfl'es  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn. 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

But  when   that   moan   had   passed    for 

evermore,  441 

The  stillness  of  the  dead  world's  winter 

dawn 
Amazed  him,  and  he  groaned,  "The  King 

is  gone." 
And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird 

rhyme, 
"From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes."2 

Whereat  he  slowly  turned  and  slowly 

clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag; 
Thence    marked    the    black    hull    moving 

yet,  and  cried, 
"He  passes  to  be  King  among  the  dead, 
And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 
He    comes    again;    but — if    he    come    no 

more —  451 

O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black 

boat. 
Who    shrieked     and    wailed,    the    three 

whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with  liv- 
ing  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence, 

friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need  ?" 

Then   from  the   dawn   it  seemed  there 
came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 

2  A  riddle  uttered  by  Merlin  the  magician,  re- 
garding Arthur's  birth. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


189 


Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,   as   if   some    fair   city    were   one 
voice  460 

Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once   more   he   moved    about, 

and  clomb 
Ev'n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and 

saw, 
Straining   his   eyes   beneath   an   arch   of 

hand, 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare 

the  King, 
Down   that   long   water   opening   on   the 

deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and 

From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new 
year. 

(1842,  1870) 


HERVE  RIEL 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[Cape  La  Hogue,  St.  Malo,  and  the  Ranee 
River  He  on  the  northern  coast  of  France.  Here 
the  British  and  Dutch  allies  defeated  the  fleet 
of  Louis  XIV,  but  a  Breton  sailor  of  Croisic, 
Herve  Riel  (pronounced  Re-el'),  piloted  a  good 
number  of  the  fleeing  vessels  to  safety  in  the 
roadstead  at  St.   Malo.] 

On   the   sea   and   at   the   Hogue,   sixteen 
hundred  ninety-two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French, — woe 
to  France ! 

And,     the     thirty-first    of     May,     helter- 
skelter  through  the  blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of   frightened  porpoises  a 
shoal  of  sharks  pursue. 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to   Saint 
Malo  on  the  Ranee, 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

'Twas   the   squadron   that   escaped,    with 

the  victor  in  full  chase; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his 

great   ship,    Damfreville ; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ;  10 

And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
"Help  the  winners  of  a  race ! 
Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take 

us  quick — or,  quicker  still. 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will !" 


Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk 
and  leaped  on  board ; 
"Why  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships 
like   these  to   pass?"   laughed   they: 
"Rocks    to   starboard,    rocks    to    port,    all 

the  passage  scarred  and  scored, 
Shall     the     Formidable     here     with     her 
twelve  and  eighty  guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the 
single  narrow  way. 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a 
craft  of  twenty  tons,  20 

And  with  flow^  at  full  beside? 
Now,  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 

Reach  the  mooring?     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs. 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay!" 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate : 

"Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would 

you  have  them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  to- 
gether stern   and  bow. 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound?  30 

Better  run  the  ships  aground! 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
"Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 
Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the 
vessels  on  the  beach ! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

"Give  the  word  I"     But  no  such  word 

Was  ever  spoke  or  heard : 

For   up    stood,    for   out    stepped,    for    in 

struck  amid  all  these 
— A   Captain?    A   Lieutenant?   A   Mate — 

first,  second,  third?  40 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete! 
But   a   simple   Breton    sailor  pressed^   by 

Tourville  for  the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the 

Croisickese. 

And  "What  mockery  or  malice  have  we 

here?"  cried  Herve  Riel: 
"Are  you  mad.  you  Malouins?     Are  you 

cowards,   fools,  or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who 

took  the  soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow, 

every  swell, 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where 

the  river  disembogues  ?3 

I  flow.     The  incoming  tide. 

3  pressed.     Drafted. 

3  disembogues.     Empties. 


190 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?     Is  it 

love  the  lying's  for?  50 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered   free   and   anchored   fast  at  the 

foot  of  Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?    That 

were  worse  than  fifty  Hogues! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth!     Sirs, 

believe  me  there's  a  way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 
Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine. 
And   I   lead   them,    most   and    least,   by 

a  passage  I  know  well,  60 

Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 
And  there  lay   them   safe  and  sound : 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 
— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground. 
Why    I've    nothing   but    my    life, — here's 

my  head!"  cries  Herve  RieL 


Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 
"Steer  us  in,  then,   small  and  great! 
Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the 

squadron !"  cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief.  70 

Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound. 
Keeps   the  passage   as   its   inch   of   way 

were  the  wide  sea's  profound! 
See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 
How  they  follow  in  a  flock. 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel 

that  grates  the  ground, 
Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past,  80 

All  are  harbored  to  the  last, 
And  just  as  Herve  Kiel  hollas 

"Anchor!" — sure  as  fate. 
Up  the  English  come — too  late! 


So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm: 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On   the   heights   o'erlooking   Greve. 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 

"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 
Let  the  English  rake  the  bay. 

Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance       90 
As  they  cannonade  away! 


'Neath   rampired    Solidor   pleasant    riding 

on  the  Ranee!" 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Cap- 
tain's countenance: 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell ! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing!" 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herve  Riel ![' 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more,       100 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 


Then  said  Damfreville,  "My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out   at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips: 
You  have  saved  the   King  his  ships. 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse!         no 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France    remains   your    debtor    still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have!  or  my 
name's  not  Damfreville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue: 
"Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say. 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point, 
what  is  it  but  a  run? —  120 

Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come!     A  good  whole  holiday! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I 
call  the  Belle  Aurore!" 
That  he  asked  and  that  he  got, — nothing 
more. 


Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 

Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 
In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it 
befell; 

Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 

On  a  single  fishing-smack,  130 

In  memory   of  the   man  but   for   whom 
had  gone  to  wrack 
All  that   France  saved   from  the  fight 
whence  England  bore  the  bell.^ 

I  rampired.     Fortified. 

a  bore  the  bell.     Came  oS  leader  (victor). 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


191 


Go  to  Paris:  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  l^ 
You    shall   look   long   enough   ere   you 
come  to  Herve  Riel. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Riel,  accept  my  verse, 
In  my  verse,   Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once 

more 
Save   the   squadron,   honor   France,   love 
thy  wife,  the  Belle  Aurore!  140 

(1871) 

THE   REVENGE 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET 

ALFRED   TENNYSON 

[In  August,  1S91,  a  fleet  of  English  warships 
lay  at  Flores,  one  of  the  islands  of  the  Azores, 
to  intercept  Spanish  treasure-galleons  coming 
from  the  West  Indies.  The  fifty-three  vessels 
of  the  poem  were  sent  from  Spain  to  meet  and 
escort  the  treasure-ships.  The  ballad  is  supposed 
to  be  spoken  by  one  of  the  crew  of  Grenville's 
ship,  the  Revenge,] 

At    Flores    in   the   Azores^    Sir   Richard 

Grenville  lay, 
And    a    pinnace,    like    a    fluttered    bird, 

came  flying  from  far  away; 
"Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea!  we  have 

sighted  fifty -three!" 
Then     sware     Lord     Thomas     Howard : 

"  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward ; 
But   I   cannot   meet   them   here,    for   my 

ships  are  out  of  gear, 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must 

fly,  but   follow  quick. 
We  are   six   ships  of  the  line;^   can  we 

fight  with  fifty-three?" 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville:  "I 
know  you  are  no  coward; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with 
them  again. 

But  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  ly- 
ing sick  ashore.  10 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left 
them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devil- 
doms of  Spain." 

So  Lord  Howard  passed  away  with  five 

ships  of  war  that  day. 
Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent 

summer  heaven; 

_  I  The  Louvre  Palace  is  adorned  with  statues  of 
distinguished  Frenchmen. 

2  Atores.     Here  pronounced  "Azo'-res,"  riming 
with  "Flores."     3  ships  of  the  line.     Battleships. 


But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick 

men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow. 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast   down 

below : 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard. 
And  they  blessed  him  in  their  pain,  that 

they  were  not  left  to  Spain,  20 

To  the  thumb-screw   and  the  stake,   for 

the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work 

the  ship  and  to  fight 
And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the 

Spaniard  came  in  sight. 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon 

the  weather  bow. 
"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die! 
There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time 

this  sun  be  set." 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again:  "We  be  all 

good  English  men. 
Let  us   bang  these   dogs  of   Seville,   the 

children  of  the  devil,  30 

For  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  Don* 

or  devil  yet." 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laughed,  and 

we  roared  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the 

heart  of  the  foe. 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and 

her  ninety  sick  below; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and 

half  to  the  left  were  seen, 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro'  the 

long  sea-lane  between. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down 

from  their  decks  and  laughed. 
Thousands   of   their   seamen  made   mock 

at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delayed 
By   their   mountain-like    San   Philip   that, 

of  fifteen  hundred  tons,  40 

And   up-shadowing   high    above   us   with 

her  yawning  tiers  of  guns. 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we 

stayed. 

And    while    now    the    great    San    Philip 

hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud, 
4  Don.    Spaniard. 


192 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon 

the  starboard  lay, 
And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them 

all. 


But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  be- 
thought herself  and  went,  50 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had 
left  her  ill  content; 

And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 
they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their 
pikes  and  musqueteers. 

And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  oflF  as 
a  dog  that  shakes  his  ears 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the 
land. 


And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 
came  out  far  over  the  summer  sea. 

But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of 
the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
their  high-built  galleons  came, 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
with  her  battle-thunder  and  flame : 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
drew  back  with  her  dead  and  her 
shame.  60 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shat- 
tered, and  so  could  fight  us  no  more — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this 
in  the  world  before? 


For  he  said,  "Fight  on !  fight  on !" 
Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 
And   it   chanced    that,   when    half  of  the 

short  summer  night  was  gone. 
With   a   grisly   wound   to   be   dressed   he 

had  left  the  deck. 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing 

it  suddenly  dead. 
And   himself   he   was   wounded   again   in 

the  side  and  the  head, 
And  he  said,  "Fight  on !  fight  on !" 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 
smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 

And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides 
lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring;  71 

But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for 
they  feared  that  we  still  could  sting, 

So  they  watched  what  the  end  would  be. 


And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 

But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 

Seeing   forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were 

slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maimed  for 

life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the 

desperate  strife: 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were 

most  of  them  stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent, 

and  the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying 

over  the  side;  81 

But    Sir    Richard    cried    in    his    English 

pride : 
"We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day 

and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men ! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 
Sink   me  the   ship,   Master   Gunner — sink 

her,  split  her  in  twain ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the 

hands  of  Spain  !"  90 


And  the  gunner  said,  "Ay,  ay,"  but  the 

sea-men   made   reply : 
"We  have  children,   we  have  wives. 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if 

we  yield,  to  let  us  go ; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike 

another  blow." 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 

yielded  to  the  foe. 


And    the    stately    Spanish    men    to   their 

flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where   they    laid    him    by   the   mast,   old 

Sir  Richard  caught  at  last. 
And  they   praised   him   to  his   face  with 

their  courtly  foreign  grace; 
But   he   rose    upon   their   decks,    and   he 

cried :  100 

"I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like 

a  valiant  man  and  true; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is 

bound  to  do. 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I,  Sir  Richard  Gren- 

ville,  die  I" 
And   he    fell   upon   their   decks,    and   he 

died. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


193 


And   they   stared   at   the   dead   that   had 

been  so  valiant  and  true, 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of 

Spain  so  cheap 
That   he   dared   her   with   one   little   ship 

and  his  English  few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?    He  was  devil  for 

aught  they  knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down 

into  the  deep. 
And   they   manned   the   Revenge   with   a 

swarthier  alien  crew,  no 

And  away  she  sailed  with  her  loss,  and 

longed  for  her  own ; 
When  a  wind    from   the  lands  they  had 

ruined  awoke  itom  sleep, 
And   the   water   began  to  heave   and  the 

weather  to  moan, 
And  ori  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great 

gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised 

by  an  earthquake  grew, 
Till    it    smote    on    their    hulls    and    their 

sails  and  their  masts  and  their  flags. 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and   fell  on 

the  shot-shattered  navy  of   Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down 

by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

(1878)  ( 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH 
FLEET 

October,   1746 

HENRY    WADS  WORTH    LONGFELLOW 

[The  poem  relates  to  the  war  between  England 
and  France,  1744-48.  The  American  colonists 
having  captured  Louisburg,  one  of  the  important 
Canadian  fortresses,  the  French  fitted  out  a  fleet 
to  retake  it.  The  speaker  in  the  poem  is  Thomas 
Prince,  minister  of  the  Old  South  Church  in 
Boston.] 

A  fleet  with  flags  arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal:  "Steer  southwest." 
For  this  Admiral  D'Anville- 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our  helpless  Boston  town. 

I  or.     Ere. 

a  D'AnvilU.     Pronounce  "Don-veel." 


There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear  lo 

Of  the   coming  of  the   fleet, 

And  the   danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismaj-, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly:  "Let  us  pray! 

"O  Lord!  we  would  not  advise; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  fleet  hence,     20 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea. 
We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be." 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame; 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  ahswering  tempest  came; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power. 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls,     30 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I  cried:  "Stand  still,  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lo'-d!" 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud. 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail. 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 

Blew  the  October  gale.  40 

The  fleet  it  overtook. 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like   the   tents   of   Cushan    shook. 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian.^ 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line;*  50 

They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke. 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
O  Lord!  before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be. 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  sea! 

(1878) 

3  Cushan  .  .  .  Midian.     Desert    tribes    of    Old 
Testament  times. 

4  Ships  of  ike  line.     Warships. 


194         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

PHEIDIPPIDES 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[This  poem  tells  the  story  of  a  Greek  tradition  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  Athenian  runners.  When, 
in  490  B.C.,  Darius  of  Persia  sent  a  great  host  against  Athens,  Pheidippides  was  despatched  to 
Sparta  to  ask  for  aid.  Owing  to  Spartan  jealousy  he  was  unsuccessful,  but  brought  back  a  promise 
of  aid  from  the  god  Pan,  whom  the  Athenians  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  worshipping.  There 
followed  the  battle  of  Marathon,  when  the  Persians  were  driven  into  the  sea.  The  poem  opens  with 
Pheidippides's  salutation  of  the  gods  of  his  country,  immediately  on  his  return  from  Sparta.] 

"First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river  and  rock! 
Gods  of  my  birthplace,  daemons  and  heroes,  honor  to  all ! 
Then  I  name  thee,  claim  thee  for  our  patron,  co-equal  in  praise 
— Ay,  with  Zeus  the  Defender,  with  Her  of  the  aegis  and  spear  !>• 
Also,  ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin,^    praised  be  your  peer. 
Now,  henceforth  and  forever, — O  latest  to  whom  I  upraise 
Hand  and  heart  and  voice!     For  Athens,  leave  pasture  and  flockl 
Present  to  help,  potent  to  save,  Pan — patron  I  call! 

"Archons^  of  Athens,  topped  by  the  tettix,*  see,  I  return ! 

See,  'tis  myself  here  standing  alive,  no  spectre  that  speaks!  ^6 

Crowned  with  the  myrtle,  did  you  command  me,  Athens  and  you, 

'Run,  Pheidippides,  run  and  race,  reach  Sparta  for  aid! 

Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She?'    Your  command  I  obeyed, 

Ran  and  raced:  like  stubble,  some  field  which  a  fire  runs  through, 

Was  the  space  between  city  and  city:  two  days,  two  nights  did  I  burn 

Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,  down  pits  and  up  peaks. 

"Into  their  midst  I  broke:  breath  served  but  for  'Persia  has  come! 

Persia  bids  Athens  profifer  slaves'-tribute,  water  and  earth; 

Razedto  the  ground  is  Eretria — but  Athens,  shall  Athens  sink, 

Drop  into  dust  and  die — the  flower  of  Hellas  utterly  die,  20 

Die,  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at  Sparta,  the  stupid,  the  stander-by? 

Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do  you  stretch  o'er  destruction's  brink? 

How, — when?     No  care  for  my  limbs! — there's  lightning  in  all  and  some — 

Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips  give  it  birth!* 

"O  my  Athens — Sparta  love  thee?    Did  Sparta  respond? 

Every  face  of  her  leered  in  a  furrow  of  envy,  mistrust. 

Malice, — each  eye  of  her  gave  me  its  glitter  of  gratified  hate! 

Gravely  they  turned  to  take  counsel,  to  cast  for  excuses.     I  stood 

Quivering, — the  limbs  of  me  fretting  as  fire  frets,  an  inch  from  dry  wood: 

'Persia  has  come,  Athens  asks  aid,  and  still  they  debate?  30 

Thunder,  thou  Zeus !     Athene,  are  Spartans  a  quarry^  beyond 

Swing  of  thy  spear?     Phoebus  and  Artemis,  clang  them  "Ye  must!" 

"No  bolt^  launched  from  Olympus !    Lo,  their  answer  at  last ! 

'Has  Persia  come, — -does  Athens  ask  aid, — may  Sparta  befriend? 

Nowise  precipitate  judgment — too  weighty  the  issue  at  stake! 

Count  we  no  time  lost  time  which  lags  through  respect  to  the  gods! 

Ponder  that  precept  of  old,  "No  warfare,  whatever  the  odds 

In  your  favor,  so  long  as  the  moon,  half-orbed,  is  unable  to  take 

Full-circle  her  state  in  the  sky!"     Already  she  rounds  to  it  fast: 

Athens  must  wait,  patient  as  we — who  judgment  suspend.'  40 

X  Her  of  the  agis  and  spear.     The  goddess  Pallas  Athene,  patroness  of  Athens. 

3    Ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin.     Phoebus  Apollo  and  Artemis    (of.  line  32).     What  follows  (lines  S-8) 
is  explained  by  the  story  of  Pheidippides's  meeting  with  the  god  Pan,  lines  70-80. 

3  Archons.     The  chief  Athenian  officials.      4  tettix.      A  metal  ornament,  in  the  shape   of  a  cicada. 
5  quarry.     Hunter's  game.         6  holt.     Zeus's  thunderbolt. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  195 

"Athens, — except  for  that  sparkle, — thy  name,  I  had  mouldered  to  ash! 
That  sent  a  blaze  through  my  blood;  off,  off  and  away  was  I  back, 
— Not  one  word  to  waste,  one  look  to  lose  on  the  false  and  the  vile! 
Yet  'O  gods  of  my  land!'  I  cried,  as  each  hillock  and  plain. 
Wood  and  stream,  I  knew,  I  named,  rushing  past  them  again, 
'Have  ye  kept  faith,  proved  mindful  of  honors  we  paid  you  erewhile? 
Vain  was  the  filleted  victim,^  the  fulsome  libation!     Too  rash 
Love  in  its  choice,  paid  you  so  largely  service  so  slack!' 2 

"  'Oak  and  olive  and  bay, — I  bid  you  cease  to  enwreathe 

Brows  made  bold  by  your  leaf!     Fade  at  the  Persian's  foot,  50 

You  that,  our  patrons  were  pledged,  should  never  adorn  a  slave! 

Rather  I  hail  thee,  Parnes,^ — trust  to  thy  wild  waste  tract ! 

Treeless,  herbless,  lifeless  mountain!     What  matter  if  slacked 

My  speed  may  hardly  be,  for  homage  to  crag  and  to  cave 

No  deity  deigns  to  drape  with  verdure?  at  least  I  can  breathe. 

Fear  in  thee  no  fraud  from  the  blind,  no  lie  from  the  mute!' 

"Such  my  cry  as,  rapid,  I  ran  over  Parnes'  ridge; 
Gully  and  gap  I  clambered  and  cleared  till,  sudden,  a  bar 
Jutted,  a  stoppage  of  stone  against  me,  blocking  the  way. 

Right!  for  I  minded  the  hollow  to  traverse,  the  fissure  across:  60 

'Where  I  could  enter,  there  I  depart  by!     Night  in  the  fosse?* 
Athens  to  aid?     Though  the  dive  were  through  Erebos,^  thus  I  obey- 
Out  of  the  day  dive,  into  the  day  as  bravely  arise!     No  bridge 
Better!' — when — ha!  what  was  it  I  came  on,  of  wonders  that  are? 

"There,  in  the  cool  of  a  cleft,  sat  he — majestical  Pan! 

Ivy  drooped  wanton,  kissed  his  head,  moss  cushioned  his  hoof: 

All  the  great  god  was  good  in  the  eyes  grave-kindly — the  curl 

Carved  on  the  bearded  cheek,  amused  at  a  mortal's  awe. 

As,  under  the  human  trunk,  the  goat-thighs  grand  I  saw. 

'Halt,  Pheidippides!' — halt  I  did,  my  brain  of  a  whirl:  70 

'Hither  to  me!     Why  pale  in  my  presence?'  he  gracious  began: 

'How  is  it, — Athens,  only  in  Hellas.^  holds  me  aloof? 

"  'Athens,  she  only,  rears  me  no  fane,''^  makes  me  no  feast ! 

Wherefore?    Than  I  what  godship  to  Athens  more  helpful  of  old? 

Ay,  and  still,  and  forever  her  friend!    Test  Pan,  trust  me! 

Go,  bid  Athens  take  heart,  laugh  Persia  to  scorn,  have  faith 

In  the  temples  and  tombs!     Go,  say  to  Athens,  "The  Goat-God  saith: 

When  Persia — so  much  as  strews  not  the  soil — is  cast  in  the  sea. 

Then  praise  Pan  who  fought  in  the  ranks  with  your  most  and  least. 

Goat-thigh  to  greaved^-thigh,  made  one  cause  with  the  free  and  the  bold!"  80 

"'Say  Pan  saith:  "Let  this,  foreshadowing  the  place,  be  the  pledge!'" 

(Gay,  the  liberal  hand  held  out  this  herbage  I  bear 

—Fennel — I  grasped  it  a-tremble  with  dew — whatever  it  bode) 

'While,  as  for  thee'  .  .  .  But  enough!     He  was  gone.     If  I  ran  hitherto— 

Be  sure  that,  the  rest  of  my  journey,  I  ran  no  longer,  but  flew. 

Parnes  to  Athens — earth  no  more,  the  air  was  my  road: 

Here  am  I  back.    Praise  Pan,  we  stand  no  more  on  the  razor's  edge! 

Pan  for  Athens,  Pan  for  me!     I  too  have  a  guerdon^  rare!" 

I  filleted  victim.     The  ribbon-decked  sacrifice. 

a  service  so  slack.     That  is,  if  you  have  not  protected  Athens. 

3  Parnes.     Mountains  near  Sparta.        4  fosse.     Hollow. 

5  Erebos.     The    region    of    darkness    under    the  earth. 

6  only  in  Hellas.     Alone  of  Greek  cities. 

7  fane.     Temple.         8  greaved.     Armored.         9  guerdon.     Reward. 


196         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

Then  spoke  Miltiades.     "And  thee,  best  runner  of  Greece, 

Whose  limbs  did  duty  indeed, — what  gift  is  promised  thyself?  90 

Tell  it  us  straightway, — Athens  the  mother  demands  of  her  son!" 

Rosily  blushed  the  youth:  he  paused:  but,  lifting  at  length 

His  eyes  from  the  ground,  it  seemed  as  he  gathered  the  rest  of  his  strength 

Into  the  utterance — "Pan  spoke  thus:    'For  what  thou  hast  done 

Count  on  a  worthy  reward!     Henceforth  be  allowed  thee  release 

}'"rom  the  racer's  toil,  no  vulgar  reward  in  praise  or  in  pelf!'  ^ 

"I  am  bold  to  believe.  Pan  means  reward  the  most  to  my  mind! 

Fight  I  shall,  with  our  foremost,  wherever  this  fennel  may  grow, — 

Pound — Pan  helping  us — Persia  to  dust,  and  under  the  deep 

Whelm  her  away  forever;  and  then — no  Athens  to  save —  loo 

Marry  a  certain  maid,  I  know  keeps  faith  to  the  brave, — 

Hie  to  my  house  and  home:  and,  when  my  children  shall  creep 

Close  to  my  knees, — recount  how  the  god  was  awful  yet  kind. 

Promised  their  sire  reward   to   the   full — rewarding  him — so!" 

Unforeseeing  one!     Yes,  he  fought  on  the  Marathon  day: 

So,  when  Persia  was  dust,  all  cried  "To  Akropolis! 

Run,  Pheidippides,  one  race  more !  the  meed^  is  thy  due ! 

'Athens  is  saved,  thank  Pan,'  go  shout!"    He  flung  down  his  shield, 

Ran  like  fire  once  more:  and  the  space  'twixt  the  fennel-field 

And  Athens  was  stubble  again,  a  field  which  a  fire  runs  through.  no 

Till  in  he  broke :    "Rejoice,  we  conquer !"    Like  wine  through  clay, 

Joy  in  his  blood  bursting  his  heart,  he  died — the  bliss! 

So,  to  this  day,  when  friend  meets  friend,  the  word  of  salute 

Is  still  "Rejoice!" — his  word  which  brought  rejoicing  indeed. 

So  is  Pheidippides  happy  forever, — the  noble  strong  man 

Who  could  race  like  a  god,  bear  the  face  of  a  god,  whom  a  god  loved  so  well; 

He  saw  the  land  saved  he  had  helped  to  save,  and  was  suffered  to  tell 

Such  tidings,  yet  never  decline,^  but  gloriously  as  he  began, 

So  to  end  gloriously — once  to  shout,  thereafter  be  mute: 

"Athens  is  saved!" — Pheidippides  dies  in  the  shout,  for  his  meed.  120 

(1879) 

I  ptlf.     Goods.  2  meed.     Reward.  3  decline.     Weaken. 


THE   CHARGE    QF    THE    HEAVY  For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's  three  hundred 

BRIGADE  AT   BALACLAVA  „  ,  were  riding  by 

When  the  pomts  of  the   Russian  lances 

n^tr^u^^  OP    tQp^  arose  in  the  sky; 

uctooer  2S,  l»54  And   he   called    "Left    wheel    into    line!" 

.^_,„_.^  TTTMMvcrvTVT  and  they  wheeled  and  obeyed. 

ALFRED    TENNYSON  ^j^^^    j^^    ,^^j^^j    ^^    ^^e    host    that    had 

rir     *i,    t.-  .    •    1  I,    •     t  *u-                    ♦!.  halted  he  knew  not  why, 

[tor  the  historical  basis  of  this  poem,  see  the         a     j    t-      ^  j    1.    ir  _j     1   i,_    u»j» 

note   on   "The  Charge  of  the  Light   brigade."  And  he  tumed  half  round,  and  he  bade 

page  119  above.]  his  trumpeter  sound 

To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead,  as 

The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred,  he  waved  his  blade 

the  Heavy  Brgade !  To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose  glory 

Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands  will  never  die —                                  10 

of  Russians,  "Follow,"  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up 

Thousands  of  horsemen,  drew  to  the  val-  the  hill, 

ley — and   stayed;  Followed  the  Heavy  Brigade. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


197 


The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge,  and 

the  might  of  the  fight! 
Thousands    of    horsemen    had    gathered 

there  on  the  height. 
With  a  wing  pushed  out  to  the  left  and 

a  wing  to  the  right. 
And  who  shall  escape  if  they  close?    But 

he  dashed  up  alone 
Through  the  great  gray  slope  of  men, 
Swayed  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 
Like  an   Englishman  there  and  then ; 
All  in  a  moment  followed  with  force    20 
Three    that    were    next    in    their    fiery 

course, 
Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse  and 

horse, 
Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow  gap 

they  had  made — 
Four  amid  thousands !  and  up  the  hill,  up 

the  hill, 
Galloped  the  gallant   three  hundred,  the 

Heavy  Brigade. 


Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 
Underfoot  there  in  the   fray — 
Ranged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 
In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day; 
Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 
Staggered  the  mass  from  without. 
Drove  it  in  wild  disarray,  60 

For  our  men   galloped  up   with  a  cheer 

and  a  shout, 
And  the  foemen  surged,  and  wavered,  and 

reeled 
Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out 

of  the  field, 
And  over  the  brow  and  away. 

Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge 

that  they  made! 
Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  and  all 

the  Brigade! 

(1881) 


Fell  like  a  cannonshot. 

Burst  like  a  thunderbolt, 

Crashed  like  a  hurricane. 

Broke  through  the  mass  from  below, 

Drove  through  the  midst  of  the  foe,      30 

Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 

Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow. 

Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys, 

Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of  light! 

And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze. 

Who  were  held   for  a   while   from   the 

fight. 
And  were  only  standing  at  gaze. 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings   from  the  left  and  the 

right. 
And  Tolled  them  around  like  a  cloud, — 
O  mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle  were 

we,  41 

When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank  from 

sight. 
Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark-gray  sea. 
And  we  turned  to  each  other,  whispering, 

all  dismayed, 
"Lost  are  the  gallant   three  hundred   of 

Scarlett's  Brigade !" 


"Lost  one  and  all"  were  the  words 
Muttered  in  our  dismay ; 
But  they  rode  like  victors  and  lords 
Through  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes,        50 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay — 


THE   WHITE   SHIP 

Henry  I  of  England — 2Sth  November, 
1 120 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

[Henry  I  had  taken  his  only  son  to  Normandy, 
that  the  Prince  might  be  acknowledged  his  suc- 
cessor to  the  Dukedom.  On  the  return  voyage 
the  vessel  in  which  the  Prince  was  sailing  struck 
a  rock  at  the  mouth  of  the  harbor  and  sank. 
Rossetti  represents  the  story  as  being  told  in  the 
manner  of  an  old  ballad,  years  after  the  occur- 
rence, by  the  sole  survivor  of  the  shipwreck;  thus 
he  uses  a  kind  of  ballad  refrain.  Twenty-three 
stanzas  are  omitted  after  line   151.] 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told. 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

(Lands   are   swayed   by   a    king    on   a 
throne.) 
'Twas  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea. 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 

(The  sea  hath  no  king  but  God  alone.) 

King  Henry  held  it  as  life's  whole  gain 
That  after  his  death  his  son  should  reign. 

'Twas  so  in  my  youth  I  heard  men  say, 
And  my  old  age  calls  it  back  to-day.       10 

King  Henry  of  England's  realm  was  he, 
And  Henry  Duke  of  Normandy. 


198 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  times  had  changed  when  on  cither 

coast 
"Clerkly  Harry"  was  all  his  boast. 

Of  ruthless  strokes  full  many  a  one 

He  had  struck  to  crown  himself  and  his 

son; 
And  his  elder  brother's  eyes  were  gone. 

And  when  to  the  chase  his  court  would 

crowd, 
The  poor  flung  ploughshares  on  his  road, 
And  shrieked :  "Our  cry  is  from  King  to 

God !"  20 

But  all  the  chiefs  of  the  English  land 
Had  knelt  and  kissed  the  Prince's  hand. 

And    next    with    his    son    he    sailed    to 

France 
To  claim  the  Norman  allegiance: 

And  every  baron  in  Normandy 
Had  taken  the  oath  of  fealty. 

'Twas    sworn   and    sealed,    and   the    day 

had  come 
When   the   King  and  the   Prince   might 

journey  home : 

For  Christmas  cheer  is  to  home  hearts 
dear,  29 

And  Christmas  now  was  drawing  near. 

Stout  Fitz-Stephen  came  to  the  king, — 
A  pilot  famous  in  seafaring; 

And  he  held  to  the  King,  in  all  men's 

sight, 
A  mark  of  gold  for  his  tribute's  right. 

"Liege  lord !  my  father  guided  the  ship 
From  whose  boat  your   father's  foot  did 

slip 
When  he  caught  the  English  soil  in  his 

grip. 

"And  cried :  'By  this  clasp  I  claim  com- 
mand 
O'er  every  rood  of  English  land." 

"He  was  borne  to  the  realm  you  rule  o'er 
now  40 

In  that  ship  with  the  archer  carved  at  her 
prow: 


"And  thither  I'll  bear,  an  it  be  my  due. 
Your  father's  son  and  his  grandson  too. 

"The  famed  White  Ship  is  mine  in  the 

bay; 
From  Harfleur's  harbor  she  sails  to-day, 

"With   masts    fair-pennoned   as    Norman 

spears, 
And  with  fifty  well-tried  mariners." 

Quoth  the  King:   "My  ships  are  chosen 

each  one. 
But  I'll  not  say  nay  to  Stephen's  son. 

"My  son  and  daughter  and  fellowship    50 
Shall  cross  the  water  in  the  White  Ship." 

The  king   set   sail   with   the   eve's   south 

wind. 
And  soon  he  left  that  coast  behind. 

The  Prince  and  all  his,  a  princely  show, 
Remained  in  the  good  White  Ship  to  go. 

With  noble  knights  and  with  ladies  fair. 
With  courtiers  and  sailors  gathered  there, 
Three  hundred  living  souls  we  were; 

And  I  Berold  was  the  meanest  hind^ 
In  all  that  train  to  the  Prince  assigned. 

The  Prince  was  a  lawless,  shameless 
youth ;  61 

From  his  father's  loins  he  sprang  without 
ruth  ;2 

Eighteen  years  till  then  he  had  seen, 
And  the  devil's  dues  in  him  were  eighteen. 

And   now   he   cried :    "Bring   wine    from 

below ; 
Let  the  sailors  revel  ere  yet  they  row : 

"Our  speed  shall  o'ertake  my  father's 
flight 

Though  we  sail  from  the  harbor  at  mid- 
night." 

The   rowers    made    good    cheer    without 

check ; 
The  lords  and  ladies  obeyed  his  beck;  70 
The  night  was  light,  and  they  danced  on 

the  deck. 

1  hind,     servant. 

2  ruth.     Pity. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


199 


But  at  midnight's  stroke  they  cleared  the 
bay, 

And  the  White  Ship  furrowed  the  water- 
way. 

The  sails  were  set,  and  the  oars  kept  tune 
To  the  double  flight  of  the  ship  and  the 
moon. 

Swifter  and  swifter  the  White  Ship  sped, 
Till  she  flew  as  the  spirit  flies  from  the 
dead: 

As  white  as  a  lily  glimmered  she. 
Like  a  ship's  fair  ghost  upon  the  sea. 

And  the  Prince  cried,  "Friends,  'tis  the 

hour  to  sing!  80 

Is  a  songbird's  course  so  swift  on  the 
wing?" 

And  under  the  winter  stars'  still  throng. 
From  brown  throats,  white  throats,  merry 

and  strong. 
The  knights  and  the  ladies  raised  a  song. 

A  song, — nay,  a  shriek  that  rent  the  sky. 
That  leaped  o'er  the  deep! — the  grievous 

cry 
Of  three  hundred  living  that  now  must 

die,— 

An    instant    shriek   that    sprang   to    the 

shock 
As  the  ship's  keel  felt  the  sunken  rock. 

'Tis  said  that  afar — a  shrill  strange 
sigh —  90 

The  King's  ships  heard  it  and  knew  not 
why. 

Pale  Fitz-Stephen  stood  by  the  helm 
'Mid  all  those  folk  that  the  waves  must 
whelm. 

A   great   king's   heir    for   the   waves   to 

whelm, 
And  the  helpless  pilot  pale  at  the  helm ! 

The  ship  was  eager  and  sucked  athirst. 
By  the   stealthy   stab   of   the  sharp   reef 
pierced : 

And  like  the  moili  round  a  sinking  cup, 
The  waters  against  her  crowded  up. 
X  moil.     Rush  of  water. 


A    moment   the   pilot's    senses   spin, — 
The  next  he  snatched  the  Prince  'mid  the 

din,  loi 

Cut  the  boat  loose,  and  the  youth  leaped 

in. 

A  few  friends  leaped  with  him,  standing 

near. 
"Row !    the   sea's   smooth   and   the   night 

is  clear !" 

"What !  none  to  be  saved  but  these  and 

I?" 
"Row,  row  as  you'd  live!     All  here  must 

die!" 

Out  of  the  churn  of  the  choking  ship. 
Which  the  gulf  grapples  and  the  waves 

strip. 
They  struck  with  the  strained  oars'  flash 

and  dip. 

'Twas   then   o'er   the   splitting  bulwarks' 
brim  no 

The  Prince's  sister  screamed  to  him. 

He  gazed  aloft,  still  rowing  apace. 
And  through  the  whirled  surf  he  knew 
her  face. 

To  the  toppling  decks  clave  one  and  all 
As  a  fly  cleaves  to  a  chamber-wall. 

I  Berold  was  clinging  anear; 

I   prayed    for    myself    and    quaked    with 

fear. 
But  I  saw  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her. 

He  knew  her  face  and  he  heard  her  cry. 

And  he  said,   "Put  back!   she  must  not 

die !"  120 

And  back  with  the  current's  force  they 

reel. 
Like  a  leaf  that's  drawn  to  a  water-wheel. 

'Neath    the    ship's    travail^    they    scarce 

might  float. 
But   he   rose   and   stood   in   the   rocking 

boat. 

Low  the  poor  ship  leaned  on  the  tide : 
O'er   the   naked   keel   as   she   best   might 

slide, 
The  sister  toiled  to  the  brother's  side. 

2  travail.     Labor,  tossing. 


200 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


He  reached  an  oar  to  her  from  below, 
And  stiffened  his  arms  to  clutch  her  so. 

But  now  from  the  ship  some  spied  the 
boat,  130 

And  "Saved!"  was  the  cry  from  many  a 
throat. 

And   down  to  the  boat  they  leaped  and 

fell : 
It  turned  as  a  bucket  turns  in  a  well, 
And  nothing  was  there  but  the  surge  and 

swell. 

The   Prince  that   was  and  the   King  to 

come. 
There  in  an  instant  gone  to  his  doom, 

Despite  of  all  England's  bended  knee 
And  maugre^  the  Norman  fealty! 

He  was  a  Prince  of  lust  and  pride; 
He   showed   no   grace   till   the   hour   he 
died.  140 

When  he  should  be  king,  he  oft  would 

vow, 
He'd  yoke  the  peasant  to  his  own  plough. 
O'er  him   the   ships   score  their   furrows 

now. 

God  only  knows  where  his  soul  did  wake, 
But  I  saw  him  die  for  his  sister's  sake. 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told. 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

{Lands  are   swayed   by   a   king   on   a 
throne.) 
'Twas  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea. 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 

(The  sea  hath  no  king  but  God  alone.) 


Three   hundred   souls   were   all   lost   but 
one,  152 

And  I  drifted  over  the  sea  alone. 

At  last  the  morning  rose  on  the  sea. 
Like  an  angel's  wing  that  beat  towards 
me. 

Sore    numbed    I    was    in    my    sheepskin 

coat; 
Half    dead    I    hung,   and   might    nothing 

note, 
Till  I  woke  sun-warned  in  a  fisher-boat. 

I  maugre.     In  spite  of. 


The  sun  was  high  o'er  the  eastern  brim, 
As  I  praised  God  and  gave  thanks  to  Him. 

That  day  I  told  my  tale  to  a  priest,     161 
Who    charged    me,    till    the    shrift^    were 

released, 
That  I  should  keep  it  in  mine  own  breast. 

And  with  the  priest  I  thence  did   fare 
To  King  Henry's  court  at  Winchester. 

We  spoke  with  the  King's  high  chamber- 
lain. 

And  he  wept  and  mourned  again  and 
again, 

As  if  his  own  son  had  been  slain; 

And  round  us  ever  there  crowded  fast 
Great  men  with  faces  all  aghast;        170 

And   who   so   bold   that   might   tell   the 

thing 
Which  now  they  knew  to  their  lord  the 

King? 
Much  woe  I  learnt  in  their  communing. 

The  King  had  watched  with  a  heart  sore 

stirred 
For  two  whole   days,  and  this  was  the 

third ; 

And  still  to  all  his  court  would  he  say, 
"What  keeps  my  son  so  long  away?" 

And  they  said:  "The  ports  lie  far  and 

wide 
That  skirt  the  swell  of  the  English  tide; 

"And  England's  cliffs  are  not  more  white 

Than  her  women  are,  and  scarce  so  light 

Her    skies    as    their    eyes    are    blue    and 

bright ;  182 

"And  in  some  port  that  he  reached  from 

France 
The   Prince  has  lingered   for  his  pleas- 

aunce." 

But  once  the  King  asked :  "What  distant 

cry 
Was  that  we  heard  'twixt  the  sea  and 

sky  ?" 

And    one    said :    "With    suchlike    shouts, 

pardie ! 
Do  the  fishers  fling  their  nets  at  sea." 

2  shrift.     Confession. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


201 


And  one :  "Who  knows  not  the  shrieking 

quest 
When  the  sea-mew  misses  its  young  from 

the  nest?"  190 

'Twas   thus    till    now   they    had    soothed 

his  dread, 
Albeit  they  knew  not  what  they  said; 

But    who    should    speak    to-day    of    the 

thing 
That  all  knew  there  except  the  King? 

Then  pondering  much  they  found  a  way, 
And  met  round  the  King's  high  seat  that 
day; 

And   the    King   sat,   with    a   heart   sore 

stirred, 
And  seldom  he  spoke  and  seldom  heard. 

'Twas  then  through  the  hall  the  King  was 

ware 
Of- a  little  boy  with  golden  hair,  2CX) 

As  bright  as  the  golden  poppy  is, 
That   the  beach   breeds    for   the   surf   to 
kiss; 

Yet  pale  his  cheek  as  the  thorn  in  spring. 
And  his  garb  black  like  the  raven's  wing. 

Nothing  heard  but  his  foot  through  the 

hall, 
For  now  the  lords  were  silent  all. 

And     the     King     wondered,     and     said, 

"Alack! 
Who   sends   me   a   fair   boy   dressed    in 

black? 

"Why,  sweet  heart,  do  you  pace  through 
the  hall,  209 

As  though  my  court  were  a  funeral?" 

Then  lowly  knelt  the  child  at  the  dais, 
And    looked   up    weeping    in    the    King's 
face. 

"O  wherefore  black,  O  King,  ye  may  say, 
For  white  is  the  hue  of  death  to-day. 

"Your  son  and  all  his   fellowship 

Lie  low  in  the  sea  with  the  White  Ship." 

King  Henry  fell  as  a  man  struck  dead ; 
And  speechless   still  he  stared   from  his 

bed, 
When  to  him  next  day  my  rede  I  read.^ 

I  my  rede  I  read.     I  told  my  tale. 


There's  many  an  hour  must  needs  beguile 
A  king's  high  heart  that  he  should  smile, — 

Full  many  a  lordly  hour,  full  fain^      222 
Of    his    realm's    rule    and    pride    of    his 

reign ; 
But  this  king  never  smiled  again. 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told. 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

(Lands  that  are  swayed  by  a  king  on 
a  throne.) 
'Twas  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea, 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 

{The  sea  hath  no  king  but  God  alone.) 

(1881) 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

ROBERT    BUCHANAN 

[Medieval  legends  told  of  supernatural  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  finding  burial  for  the  body 
of  Judas.  The  poet  develops  this  theme,  in  the 
manner  of  an  old  ballad,  adding  a  modern  in- 
terpretation of  the  theme  of  Christ's  all-pardon- 
ing love.] 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Beside  the  body   stood. 

Black  was  the  earth  by  night. 

And  black  was  the  sky; 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds. 

Though  the  red  moon  went  by. 


'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Strangled  and  dead  lay  there; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Looked  on  it   in  despair. 


10 


The  breath  of  the  world  came  and  went 

Like  a  sick  man's  in  rest; 
Drop  by  drop  on  the  world's  eyes 

The  dews  fell  cool  and  blest. 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  make  a  gentle  moan — 
"I   will   bury  underneath   the   ground 

My  flesh  and  blood  and  bone.  20 

"I  will  bury  deep  beneath  the  soil, 

Lest  mortals  look  thereon. 
And  when  the  wolf  and  raven  come 

The  body  will  be  gone! 

a  fain.     Glad. 


202 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"The  stones  of  the  field  are   sharp  as 
steel, 

And   hard  and   bold,   God  wot; 
And  I  must  bear  my  body  hence 

Until  I  find  a  spot." 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

So  grim,  and  gaunt,  and  gray,  30 

Raised    the    body   of   Judas    Iscariot, 
And  carried  it  away. 

And  as  he  bare  it  from  the  field 

Its  touch  was  cold  as  ice. 
And  the  ivory  teeth  within  the  jaw 

Rattled  aloud,  like  dice. 

As  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Carried  its  load  with  pain, 
The  Eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  lantern's  eye. 

Opened  and  shut  again.  40 

Half  he  walked,  and  half  he  seemed 

Lifted  on  the  cold  wind; 
He  did  not  turn,  for  chilly  hands 

Were  pushing  from  behind. 

The  first  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  open  wold,^ 
And  underneath  were  prickly  whins,' 

And  a  wind  that  blew  so  cold. 


The  next  place  that  he  came  unto 
It  was  a  stagnant  pool. 

And  when  he  threw  the  body  in 
It  floated  light  as  wool. 


50 


He  drew  the  body  on  his  back, 

And  it  was  dripping  chill, 
And  the  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

Was  a  Cross  upon  a  hill. 

A  Cross  upon  a  windy  hill. 
And  a  Cross  on  either  side. 

Three  skeletons  that  swing  thereon. 
Who  had  been  crucified.  60 

And  on  the  middle  cross-bar  sat 

A  white  Dove  slumbering; 
Dim  it  sat  in  the  dim  light, 

With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 

And  underneath  the  middle  Cross 
A  grave  yawned  wide  and  vast, 

But  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Shivered,  and  glided  past. 

1  wold.     Down,  open  rolling  country, 
a  whins.     Furze  or  gorse. 


The  fourth  place  that  he  came  unto 
It  was  the  Brig^  of  Dread,  70 

And  the  great  torrents  rushing  down 
Were  deep,  and  swift,  and  red. 

He  dared  not  fling  the  body  in 

For  fear  of  faces  dim. 
And  arms  were  waved  in  the  wild  water 

To  thrust  it  back  to  him. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Turned  from  the  Brig  of  Dread, 

And    the    dreadful    foam    of    the    wild 
water 
Had  splashed  the  body  red.  80 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on 

Upon  an  open  plain. 
And    the    days    went    by    like    blinding 
mist. 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on. 
All  through  the  Wood  of  Woe; 

And  the  nights  went  by  like  moaning 
wind. 
And  the  days  like  drifting  snow. 


'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Came  with  a  weary  face — 

Alone,  alone,  and  all  alone. 
Alone  in  a  lonely  place! 


90 


He  wandered  east,  he  wandered  west, 
And  heard  no  human  sound; 

For   months   and   years,   in    grief   and 
tears. 
He  wandered  round  and  round. 

For   months    and    years,    in    grief   and 
tears. 

He  walked   the  silent  night; 
Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Perceived  a  far-off  light.  lOO 

A  far-ofif  light  across  the  waste. 

As  dim  as  dim  might  be. 
That  came  and  went  like  a  lighthouse 
gleam 

On  a  black  night  at  sea. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Crawled  to  the  distant  gleam; 

And  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  rain 
was  blown 
Against  him  with  a  scream. 

3  Brig.     Bridge. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


203 


For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on, 
Pushed  on  by  hands  behind;  no 

And  the  days  went  by  like  black,  black 
rain, 
And  the  nights  like  rushing  wind. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
Strange,   and   sad,   and   tall, 

Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 
Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  wold  was  white  with  snow 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp, 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silver  moon  arose. 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp.  120 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves. 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white. 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Passed  on  the  window  light. 

The  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 
Did  strangely  come  and  go, 

And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Lay  stretched  along  the  snow. 


The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Lay  stretched  along  the  snow; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro. 


130 


To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down. 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there. 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  Pole 

Glideth  the  lean  white  bear. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table- 
head, 
And    the    lights    burned    bright    and 
clear, — 
"Oh,    who    is    that,"    the    Bridegroom 
said, 
"Whose  weary  feet  I  hear?"  140 

'Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall, 
And  answered  soft  and  slow, 

"It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 
With  a  black  track  in   the   snow." 

The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white 

Sat  at  the  table-head — 
"O,    who    is    that    who    moans    without?" 

The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 

'Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall. 
And  answered  fierce  and  low,         150 

"  'Tis  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Gliding  to  and  fro." 


'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand. 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The    Bridegroom    stood    in    the    open 
door. 

And  he  was  clad  in  white. 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  long  and  bright.     160 

The  Bridegroom  shaded  his  eyes  and 
looked. 
And  his  face  was  bright  to  see — 
"What    dost   thou   here   at   the   Lord's 
Supper, 
With  thy  body's  sins?"  said  he. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare, — 

"I    have    wandered    many    nights    and 
days; 
There  is  no  light  elsewhere." 

'Twas    the    wedding    guests    cried    out 
within, 
And     their     eyes     were     fierce     and 
bright, —  170 

"Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night!" 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door. 
And  he  waved  hands  still  and  slow. 

And  the  third  time  that  he  waved  his 
hands 
The  air  was  thick  with  snow. 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow, 
Before  it  touched  the  ground. 

There    came    a    dove,   and    a    thousand 
doves 
Made  sweet  sound.  180 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away   full  fleet. 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare 
it  oflf 

Were  like  its  winding-sheet. 

'Twas    the    Bridegroom    stood    at    the 
open  door, 

And  beckoned,   smiling  sweet; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within, 
And  the  many  candles  shine,  igo 

And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 
Before  I  poured  the  wine!" 


2()4 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  supper  wine  is  poured  at  last, 
The  lights  burn  bright  and  fair;     190 

Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet, 
And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 

•(1882) 


THE    SLAYING    OF    URGAN 

(From   Tristram   of  Lyonesse) 

ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 

[This  is  a  passage  from  "The  Last  Pilgrimage," 
one  of  the  nine  parts  of  the  story  of  Tristram 
in  Swinburne's  version.  Tristram  has  been  sum- 
moned to  rid  Triamour,  a  Welsh  king,  of  the 
giant  Urgan,  who  is  devastating  the  land  and 
slaying   the    people.] 

But  Tristram  by  dense  hills  and  deepen- 
ing vales 
Rode  through   the   wild   glad   wastes  of 

glorious  Wales, 
High-hearted  with  desire  of  happy  fight, 
And  strong  in  soul  Vvith  merrier  sense  of 

might 
Than  since  the  fair  first  years  that  hailed 

him  knight; 
For  all  his  will  was  toward  the  war,  so 

long 
Had  love  repressed  and  wrought  his  glory 

wrong. 
So  far  the  triumph  and  so  fair  the  praise 
Seemed   now   that  kindled   all   his   April 

days. 
And  here  in  bright  blown  autumn,  while 

his  life  10 

Was   summer's   yet   for   strength   toward 

love  or  strife, 
Blithe  waxed  his  hope  toward  battle,  and 

high  desire 
To  pluck  once  more   (as  out  of  circling 

fire) 
Fame,    the    broad    flower    whose    breath 

makes  death  more  sweet 
Than    roses    crushed   by    love's    receding 

feet. 

But  all  the  lovely  lanti  wherein  he  went 

The  blast  of  ruin  and  ravenous  war  had 
rent; 

And  black  with  fire  the  fields  where 
homesteads  were, 

And  foul  with  festering  dead  the  high 
soft  air, 

And  loud  with  wail  of  women  many  a 
stream  20 

Whose  own  live  song  was  like  love's  deep- 
ening dream, 


Spake  all  against  the  spoiler;  wherefore 

still 
Wrath   waxed^  with  pity,  quickening  all 

his  will. 
In  Tristram's  heart   for  every  league  he 

rode, 
Through  the  aching  land  so  broad  a  curse 

bestrode 
With  so  supreme  a  shadow ;  till  one  dawn. 
Above   the   green   bloom   of   a   gleaming 

lawn, 
High  on   the   strait^   steep   windy  bridge 

that  spanned 
A  glen's  deep  mouth,  he  saw  that  shadow 

stand 
Visible,  sword  on  high  and  mace  in  hand, 
Vast   as    the    mid   bulk   of   a   roof-tree's 

beam.  31 

So,    sheer   above    the   wild   wolf-haunted 

stream. 
Dire  as  the  face  disfeatured^  of  a  dream. 
Rose  Urgan ;  and  his  eyes  were  night  and 

flame; 
But   like  the   fiery   dawn  were   his   that 

came 
Against  him,  lit  with  more  sublime  desire 
Than    lifts    toward    heaven    the    leaping 

heart  of  fire. 
And    strong   in   vantage    of   his   perilous 

place. 
The  huge  high  presence,  red  as  earth's 

first  race, 
Reared  like  a  reed  the  might  up  of  his 

mace,  40 

And  smote.  But  lightly  Tristram  swerved, 

and   drove 
Right  in  on  him,  whose  void  stroke  only 

clove 
Air,  and  fell  wide,  thundering  athwart; 

and  he 
Sent  forth  a  stormier  cry  than  wind  or 

sea 
When  midnight  takes  the  tempest  for  her 

lord. 
And  all  the  glen's  throat  seemed  as  hell's 

that  roared ; 
But    high    like    heaven's    light   over   hell 

shone   Tristram's   sword, 
Falling;  and  bright  as  storm  shows  God's 

bare  brand* 
Flashed   as   it   shore   sheer  oflF  the  huge 

right   hand, 
Whose   strength   was   as   the   shadow   of 

death  on  all  that  land.  50 

X  waxed.     Grew. 

3  strait.     Narrow. 

3  disfeatured.     Distorted. 

4  brand.     Sword. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


205 


And  like  the  trunk  of  some    grim   tree 

sawn  through 
Reeled   Urgan,  as  his  left  hand  grasped 

and  drew 
A  steel  by  sorcerers  tempered ;  and  anew 
Raged   the   red   wind   of   fluctuant^   fight, 

till  all 
The  cliffs  were  thrilled  as  by  the  clangor- 
ous call 
Of  storm's  blown  trumpets  from  the  core 

of    night, 
Charging;  and  even  as  with  the  storm- 
wind's  might 
On  Tristram's  helm  that  sword  crashed; 

and  the  knight 
Fell,   and   his   arms   clashed,   and   a   wild 

cry  brake 
From    those    far   off   that   heard    it,    for 

his   sake  60 

Soul-stricken ;    and    that    bulk    of    mon- 
strous birth 
Sent   forth   again   a   cry   more   dire,    for 

mirth. 
But  ere  the  sunbright  arms  were  soiled 

of  earth, 
They  flashed  again,  re-risen;   and   swift 

and  loud 
Rang  the  strokes  out  as  from  a  circling 

cloud, 
So  dense  the  dust  wrought  over  them  its 

drifted  shroud. 
Strong    strokes,    within    the    mist    their 

battle  made, 
Each  hailed  on  other  through  the  shift- 
ing shade 
That   clung   about   them   hurtling  as  the 

swift  fight  swayed; 
And    each    between    the    jointed    corslet 

saw  70 

Break    forth    his    foe's    bright    blood    at 

each   grim   flaw 
Steel  made  in  hammered  iron ;  till  again 
The  fiend  put  forth  his  might  more  strong 

for  pain. 
And    cleft    the    great   knight's    glittering 

shield  in  twain. 
Laughing,   for  very  wrath   and  thirst  to 

kill, 
A  beast's  broad  laugh  of  blind  and  wolfish 

will, 
And  smote  again,  ere  Tristram's  lips  drew 

breath, 
Panting,    and   swept   as   by   the   sense   of 

death, 
I  fluctuant.     Varying. 


That  surely  should  have  touched  and 
sealed  them  fast, 

Save  that  the  sheer  stroke  shrilled  aside, 
and  passed  80 

Frustrate.2  But  answering  Tristram 
smote  anew, 

And  thrust  the  brute  breast  as  with  light- 
ning through 

Clean  with  one  cleaving  stroke  of  perfect 
might ; 

And  violently  the  vast  bulk  leaped  up- 
right, 

And  plunged  over  the  bridge,  and  fell; 
and  all 

The  cliffs  reverberate  from  his  monstrous 
fall 

Rang;  and  the  land  by  Tristram's  grace 
was  free. 

So  with  high  laud  and  honor  thence  went 
he. 

(1882) 


OPPORTUNITY 
EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream: 
There   spread   a   cloud   of   dust   along   a 

plain ; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A    furious    battle,    and    men   yelled,    and 

swords 
Shocked    upon    swords    and    shields.      A 

prince's  banner 
Wavered,      then      staggered      backward, 

hemmed  by   foes. 
A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 
And  thought,  "Had  I  a  sword  of  keener 

steel — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears 

— but  this 
Blunt  thing—!"  he  snapped  and  flung  it 

from  his  hand,  10 

And   lowering   crept   away   and   left   the 

field. 
Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore 

bestead, 
And    weaponless,    and    saw    the    broken 

sword, 
Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 
And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle- 
shout 
Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 

(1887) 

2  Frustrate.     Of  no  effect. 


206 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


THE    HIGH    TIDE    AT 
GETTYSBURG* 

WILL    HENRY    THOMPSON 

[The  Battle  of  Gettysburg,  July  1-3,  1863, 
definitely  turned  the  fortunes  of  the  Civil  War 
in  favor  of  the  Union.  The  most  spectacular  and 
decisive  incident  was  Pickett's  charge,  on  July  3, 
the  failure  of  which  caused  the  Confederate 
General  Lee  to  retire  _  from  Pennsylvania.  Of 
the  other  officers  mentioned  in  the  poem.  Petti- 
grew,  Kemper,  Garnett,  and  Armistead  were 
brigade  commanders  under  Pickett,  while  Double- 
day  was  a  division  commander  on  the  Union 
side.] 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field, 
The  gathering  battle's  smoky  shield : 
Athwart  the  gloom  the  lightning  flashed, 
And   through   the   cloud   some   horsemen 

dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 
Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 
With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 
Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny.  lo 


Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 
A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs — 
The    voice    that    rang    through    Shiloh's 

woods 
And  Chickamauga's  solitudes. 
The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons! 

Ah,   how   the   withering   tempest   blew 

Against  the  front  of  Pettigrew ! 

A     Kamsin    wind  i    that    scorched    and 

singed 
Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  British  squares  at  Waterloo!  20 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led ; 
A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled ; 
In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke, 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke, 
And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"Once  more  in  Glory's  van  with  me !" 
Virginia  cried  to  Tennessee; 
"We  two  together,   come  what  may, 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day !" 
(The  reddest  day  in  history.)  30 

*  Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  the 
author. 

I  Kamsin  wind.  A  wind  that  comes  to  Egypt 
from  the  Sahara  Desert. 


Brave  Tennessee !     In  reckless  way 
Virginia  heard  her  comrade  say, 
"Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag!" 
What  time  she  set  her  battle-flag 
Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 
Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate? 
The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were    shriveled    at   the    cannon's    mouth, 
And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate.  40 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 
His  breast  against  the  bayonet. 
In  vain  Virginia  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged. 
Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet. 

Above  the  bayonets  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men  saw  a  gray,  gigantic  ghost 
Receding   through    the    battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud. 
The  death-cry  of  a  nation  lost.  50 

The  brave  went  down;  without  disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace : 
They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sunburst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face. 

They  fell  who  lifted  up  a  hand 

And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand : 

They  smote  and  fell  who  set  the  bars 

Against  the  progress  of  the  stars. 

And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland.    60 

They  stood  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium : 
They  smote  and  stood  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 

God  lives!    He  forged  the  iron  will 
That    clutched    and   held   that   trembling 

hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns :  He  built  and  lent 
The  heights   for  Freedom's   battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still.  70 

Fold  up  the  banners !     Smelt  the  guns  ! 
Love  rules.     Her  gentler  purpose  runs. 
A  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 
The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons. 

(1888) 


NARRATIVE   POEMS  207 

A   BALLAD    OF    EAST    AND    WEST 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

[This  tale  concerns  the  country  along  the  northern  border  of  India,  near  the  passes  communi- 
cating with  Afghanistan;  the  inhabitants  are  lawless,  daring,  and  characterized  by  bitter  feuds  and 
strange  vows,  as  Kipling  depicts  them.  Native  troops  under  British  officers  patrol  the  plains,  and 
the  commander  of  a  regiment  or  risala  of  these  men  is  called  the  Ressaldar.] 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Borderside, 

And  he  has  lifted  the  Colonel's  mare  that  is  the  Colonel's  pride: 

He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  between  the  dawn  and  the  day, 

And  turned  the  calkins^  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden  her  far  away. 

Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a  troop  of  the  Guides : 

"Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say  where  Kamal  hides?" 

Then  up  and  spoke  Mohammed  Khan,  the  son  of  the  Ressaldar, 

"If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning  mist,  ye  know  where  his  pickets  are. 

At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he  is  into  Bonair — 

But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own  place  to  fare;  lo 

So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a  bird  can  fly, 

By  the  favor  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he  win  to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai. 

But  if  he  be  past  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  right  swiftly  turn  ye  then. 

For  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain  is  sown  with  Kamal's  men. 

There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and  low  lean  thorn  between, 

And  ye  may  hear  a  breech-bolt  snick  where  never  a  man  is  seen." 

The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw  rough  dun  was  he. 

With  the  mouth  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of  hell  and  the  head  of  a  gallows-tree. 

The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,^  they  bid  him  stay  to  eat — 

Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not  long  at  his  meat.  20 

He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  he  can  fly, 

Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in  the  gut  of  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, — 

Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare,  with  Kamal  upon  her  back; 

And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he  made  the  pistol  crack. 

He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whistling  ball  went  wide. 

"Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier,"  Kamal  said.    "Show  now  if  ye  can  ride." 

It's  up  and  over  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  as  blown  dust-devils  go. 

The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare  like  a  barren  doe. 

The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged  his  head  above. 

But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle-bars  as  a  lady  plays  with  a  glove.  30 

There  was  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and  low  lean  thorn  between. 

And  thrice  he  heard  a  breech-bolt  snick,  though  never  a  man  was  seen. 

They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky,  their  hoofs  drum  up  the  dawn. 

The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare  like  a  new-roused  fawn. 

The  dun  he  fell  at  a  watercourse — in  a  woful  heap  fell  he, 

And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back,  and  pulled  the  rider  free. 

He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — small  room  was  there  to  strive — 

"  'Twas  only  by  favor  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "ye  rode  so  long  alive. 

There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was  not  a  clump  of  tree, 

But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with  his  rifle  cocked  on  his  knee.  40 

If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand,  as  I  have  held  it  low, 

The  little  jackals  that  flee  so  fast  were  feasting  all  in  a  row; 

If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as  I  have  held  it  high. 

The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were  gorged  till  she  could  not  fly." 

Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son : — "Do  good  to  bird  and  beast, 

I  calkins.     Spurs  on  horse-shoes  to  prevent  slipping. 
3  won.     Got. 


208         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats  before  thou  makest  a  feast. 

If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry  my  bones  away, 

Belike  the  price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than  a  thief  could  pay. 

They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing  crop,  their  men  on  the  garnered  grain. 

The  thatch  of  the  byres^  will  serve  their  fires  when  all  the  cattle  are  slain.  50 

But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  fair,  and  thy  brethren  wait  to  sup, 

The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn, — howl,  dog,  and  call  them  up! 

And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in  steer  and  gear  and  stack. 

Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight  my  own  way  back  1" 

Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand,  and  set  him  upon  his  feet. 

"No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "when  wolf  and  gray  wolf  meet. 

May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in  deed  or  breath. 

What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to  jest  at  the  dawn  with  Death?" 

Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son:  "I  hold  by  the  blood  of  my  clan; 

Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift, — by  God,  she  has  carried  a  man!"  60 

The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and  nuzzled  her  nose  in  his  breast; 

"We  be  two  strong  men,"  said  Kama!  then,  "but  she  loveth  the  younger  best. 

So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise-studded  rein, 

My  broidered  saddle  and  saddle-cloth,  and  silver  stirrups  twain." 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew,  and  held  it  muzzle-end: 

"Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he;  "will  ye  take  the  mate  from  a  friend?" 

"A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight;  "a  limb  for  the  risk  of  a  limb. 

Thy  father  has  sent  his  son  to  me, — I'll  send  my  son  to  him." 

With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  that  dropped  from  a  mountain-crest, — 

He  trod  the  ling^  like  a  buck  in  spring,  and  he  looked  like  a  lance  in  rest.  70 

"Now  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "who  leads  a  troop  of  the  Guides, 

And  thou  must  ride  at  his  left  side  as  shield  to  shoulder  rides. 

Till  Death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp  and  board  and  bed, 

Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him  with  thy  head. 

And  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and  all  her  foes  are  thine, 

And  thou  must  harry^  thy  father's  hold  for  the  peace  of  the  Border-line, 

And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and  hack  thy  way  to  power — 

Belike  they  will  raise  thee  to  Ressaldar  when  I  am  hanged  in  Peshawur." 

They  have  looked  each  other  between  the  eyes,  and  there  they  found  no  fault, 

They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on  leavened  bread  and  salt;  80 

They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother-in-Blood  on  fire  and  fresh-cut  sod, 

On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife,  and  the  Wondrous  Names  of  God. 

The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare,  and  Kamal's  boy  the  dun. 

And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Bukloh  where  there  went  forth  but  one. 

And  when  they  drew  to  the  Quarter-Guard,  full  twenty  swords  flew  clear — 

There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud  with  the  blood  of  the  mountaineer. 

"Ha'  done !  ha'  done !"  said  the  Colonel's  son.     "Put  up  the  steel  at  your  sides ! 

Last  night  ye  had*  struck  at  a  Border  thief — to-night  'tis  a  man  of  the  Guides!" 

■Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  twain  shall  meet 
Till  earth  and  sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great  Judgment  Seat.  90 

But  there  is  neither  east  nor  west,  border,  nor  breed,  nor  birth, 

When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  though  they  come  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth. 

(1889) 

I  byres.     Stables.  a  ling.     Heather.  3  harry.     Attack.  4  had.     Would  have. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


209 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MOLL  MAGEE 

WILLIAM  B.  YEATS 

Come  round  me,  little  childer; 
There,  don't  fling  stones  at  me 
Because  I  mutter  as  I  go; 
But  pity  Moll  Magee. 

My  man  was  a  poor  fisher 
With  shore  lines  in  the  say ; 
My  work  was  saltin'  herrings 
The  whole  of  the  long  day. 

And  sometimes  from  the  saltin'  shed, 
I  scarce  could  drag  my  feet  lo 

Under  the  blessed  moonlight, 
Along  the  pebbly  street. 

I'd  always  been  but  weakly, 
And  my  baby  was  just  born ; 
A  neighbor  minded  her  by  day, 
I  minded  her  till  morn. 

I  lay  upon  my  baby; 

Ye  little  childer  dear, 

I  looked  on  my  cold  baby 

When  the  morn  grew  frosty  and  clear. 

A  weary  woman  sleeps  so  hard !  21 

My  man  grew  red  and  pale, 
And  gave  me  money,  and  bade  me  go 
To  my  own  place  Kinsale. 

He  drove  me  out  and  shut  the  door, 
And  gave  his  curse  to  me; 
I  went  away  in  silence. 
No  neighbor  could  I  see. 

The  windows  and  the  doors  were  shut, 
One  star  shone  faint  and  green ;  30 

The  little  straws  were  turnin'  round 
Across  the  bare  boreen.i 

I  went  away  in  silence ; 
Beyond  old  Martin's  byre^ 
I  saw  a  kindly  neighbor 
Blowin'  her  mornin'  fire. 

She  drew  from  me  my  story — 

My  money's  all  used  up, 

And   still,   with   pityin',   scornin'   eye, 

She  gives  me  bite  and  sup.  40 

She  says  my  man  will  surely  come 
And  fetch  me  home  agin; 
But  always,  as  I'm  movin'  round, 
Without  doors  or  within, 

I  boreen.     Lane. 
3  byre.     Cow-shed. 


Pilin'  the  wood  or  pilin'  the  turf. 
Or  goin'  to  the  well, 
I'm  thinkin'  of  my  baby 
And  keenin'3  to  mysel'. 

And  sometimes  I  am  sure  she  knows 
When,  openin'  wide  His  door,  50 

God  lights  the  stars,  His  candles, 
And  looks  upon  the  poor. 

So  now.  ye  little  childer, 
Ye  won't  fling  stones  at  me ; 
But  gather  with  your  shinin'  looks 
And  pity  Moll  Magee. 

(1889) 


THE   BALLAD   OF  FATHER 
GILLIGAN 

WILLIAM  B.  YEATS 

The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 

Was  weary  night  and  day; 

For  half  his  flock  were  in  their  beds. 

Or  under  green  sods  lay. 

Once,  while  he  nodded  on  a  chair, 
At  the  moth-hour  of  eve. 
Another  poor  man  sent  for  him, 
And  he  began  to  grieve. 

"I  have  no  rest,  nor  joy,  nor  peace, 
For  people  die  and  die ;"  10 

And  after  cried  he,  "God  forgive! 
My  body  spake,  not  I !" 

He  knelt,  and  leaning  on  the  chair 
He  prayed  and  fell  asleep ; 
And  the  moth-hour  went  from  the  fields. 
And  stars  began  to  peep. 

They  slowly  into  millions   grew, 

And  leaves  shook  in  the  wind ; 

And  God  covered  the  world  with  shade, 

And  whispered  to  mankind.  20 

Upon  the  time  of  sparrow  chirp, 
When  the  moths  came  once  more, 
The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 
Stood  upright  on  the  floor. 
3    keenin'.    Lamenting. 


210 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Mavrone !  mavrone !  the  man  has  died, 
While  I  slept  on  the  chair." 
He  roused  his  horse  out  of  its  sleep, 
And  rode  with  little  care. 

He  rode  now  as  he  never  rode, 
By  rocky  lane  and  fen;  30 

The  sick  man's  wife  opened  the  door: 
"Father!  you  come  again!" 

"And  is  the  poor  man  dead?"  he  cried. 
"He  died  an  hour  ago." 
The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 
In  grief  swayed  to  and  fro. 

"When   you   were   gone,   he   turned   and 

died 
As  merry  as  a  bird." 
The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 
He  knelt  him  at  that  word.  40 

"He  who  hath  made  the  night  of  stars 
For  souls  who  tire  and  bleed 
Sent  one  of  His  great  angels  down 
To  help  me  in  my  need. 

"He  who  is  wrapped  in  purple  robes, 
With  planets  in  His  care, 
Had  pity  on  the  least  of  things 
Asleep  upon  a  chair." 

(1892) 


ELFIN  SKATES 

EUGENE    LEE-HAMILTON 

[This  and  the  following  poem-^ach  made  of 
two  sonnets — are  from  a  collection  called  Son- 
nets of  the  Wingless  Hours,  written  when  the 
poet  was  confined  to  his  chair  through  a  long 
period  of  helpless  illness.] 


He  clambered  up  my  couch,  and  eyed  me 

long. 
"Show  me  thy  skates,"  said  I,  "for  once, 

alas !  ID 

I  too  could  skate.    What  pixie  mayst  thou 

be?" 
"I   am   the  king"   he   answered,    "of   the 

throng 
Called  Winter  Elves.     We  live  in  roots, 

and  pass 
The  summer  months  asleep.     Frost  sets 

us  free. 

II 
"We  find  by  moonlight  little  pools  of  ice, 
Just  one  yard  wide,"  the  imp  of  winter 

said; 
"And  skate  all  night,  while  mortals  are 

in  bed, 
In  tiny  circles  of  our  elf  device; 
And   when   it    snows   we   harness    forest 

mice 
To  wee  bark  sleighs,  with  lightest  fibrous 

thread,  20 

And  scour  the  woods;  or  play  all  night 

instead 
With  snowballs  large  as  peas,  well  patted 

thrice. 

"But  is  it  true,  as  I  have  heard  them  say. 
That  thou   canst  share  in  winter  games 

no  more. 
But  liest  motionless,  year  in,  year  out? 
That  must  be  hard.    To-day  I  cannot  stay, 
But  I'll  return  each  year,  when  all  is  hoar, 
And  tell  thee  when  the  skaters  are  about." 

(1894) 

THE  DEATH   OF  PUCK 
EUGENE   LEE-HAMILTON 


They   wheeled   me   up   the   snow-cleared 

gardenway. 
And   left   me  where   the   dazzling   heaps 

were  thrown; 
And,  as   I   mused  on  winter  sports  once 

known. 
Up  came  a  tiny  man  to  where  I  lay. 
He  was  six  inches  high;  his  beard  was 

grey 
As  silver   frost;   his  coat   and   cap   were 

brown, 
Of   mouse's    fur;    while   two   wee   skates 

hung  down 
From  his  wee  belt,  and  gleamed  in  win- 
ter's ray. 


I  fear  that  Puck  is  dead, — it  is  so  long 
Since  men  last  saw  him ;  dead  with  all  the 

rest 
Of  that  sweet  elfin  crew  that  made  their 

nest 
In  hollow  nuts,  where  hazels  sing  their 

song; 
Dead    and    for    ever,    like    the    antique 

throng 
The  elves  replaced:  the  Dryad  that  you 

guessed 
Behind    the    leaves ;    the    Naiad    weed-be- 

dressed; 
The  leaf-eared  Faun  that  loved  to  lead 

you  wrong. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


211 


Tell  me,  thou  hopping  Robin,  hast  thou 
met 

A  little  man,  no  bigger  than  thyself,      lo 

Whom  they  call  Puck,  where  woodland 
bells  are  wet? 

Tell  me,  thou  Wood-Mouse,  hast  thou 
seen  an  elf 

Whom  they  call  Puck,  and  is  he  seated 
yet. 

Capped  with  a  snail-shell,  on  his  mush- 
room  shelf  ? 


The  Robin  gave  three  hops,  and  chirped, 

and   said : 
"Yes,    I    knew    Puck,    and    loved    him; 

though  I  trow 
He  mimicked  oft   my  whistle,  chuckling 

low; 
Yes,  I  knew  Cousin  Puck ;  but  he  is  dead. 
We   found  him   lying  on   his   mushroom 

bed— 
The  Wren  and  I — half  covered  up  with 

snow,  20 

As  we  were  hopping  where  the  berries 

grow. 
We  think  he  died  of  cold.     Ay,  Puck  is 

fled." 

And   then   the   Wood-Mouse   said:    "We 

made  the  Mole 
Dig  him  a  little  grave  beneath  the  moss, 
And  four  big  Dormice  placed  him  in  the 

hole. 
The    Squirrel   made   with   sticks   a   little 

cross; — 
Puck   was    a    Christian    elf,    and    had    a 

soul ; — 
And  all  we  velvet- jackets  mourn  his  loss." 


(1894) 


THE   LAST   CHANTEY* 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 
"And  there  was  no  more  sea."    IRevelatian  21:1.] 

Thus  said  the  Lord  in  the  Vault  above 

the  Cherubim, 
Calling   to   the   angels    and   the   souls   in 
their  degree : 
"Lo!     Earth  has  passed  away 
On  the  smoke  of  Judgment  Day. 
That  Our  word  may  be  established  shall 
We  gather  up  the  sea?" 

*  From  The  Seven  Seas.     Copyright,   1896,  by 
Rudyard   Kipling. 


Loud  sang  the  souls  of  the  jolly,  jolly 

mariners : 
"Plague  upon  the  hurricane  that  made  us 
furl  and  flee ! 
But  the  war  is  done  between  us. 
In  the  deep  the  Lord  hath  seen  us — 
Our    bones    we'll    leave    the    barracout',^ 
and  God  may  sink  the  sea !"  10 

Then  said  the  soul  of  Judas  that  betrayed 

Him: 
"Lord,  hast  Thou  forgotten  Thy  covenant 
with  me? 
How  once  a  year  I  go 
To  cool  me  on  the  floe. 
And  Ye  take  my  day  of  mercy  if  Ye  take 
away  the  sea!" 

Then  said  the  soul  of  the  Angel  of  the 

Off-shore  Wind: 
(He  that  bits  the  thunder  when  the  bull- 
mouthed  breakers  flee)  : 
"I  have  watch  and  ward  to  keep 
O'er  Thy  wonders  on  the  deep. 
And  Ye  take  mine  honor  from  me  if  Ye 
take  away  the  sea!"  20 

Loud   sang  the  souls   of   the   jolly,  jolly 

mariners : 
"Nay,  but  we  were  angry,   and   a  hasty 
folk  are  we ! 
If  we  worked  the  ship  together 
Till  she  foundered  in  foul  weather, 
Are  we  babes  that  we  should  clamor  for  a 
vengeance  on  the  sea?" 

Then   said   the   souls   of   the   slaves   that 

men  threw  overboard : 
"Kenneled  in  the  picaroon^  a  weary  band 
were  we ; 
But  Thy  arm  was  strong  to  save. 
And  it  touched  us  on  the  wave. 
And  we  drowsed  the  long  tides   idle  till 
Thy  Trumpets  tore  the  sea."  30 

Then  cried  the  soul  of  the  stout  Apostle 

Paul  to  God : 
"Once    we    frapped^    a    ship,    and    she   la- 
bored woundily.* 
There  were   fourteen  score  of  these. 
And  they  blessed  Thee  on  their  knees, 
When  they  learned  Thy  Grace  and  Glory 
under  Malta  by  the   sea." 

1  barracout',     Barracouta,      for     barracuda,      a 
large  fish. 

2  picaroon.     Pirate-ship. 

3  frapped.     Lashed,  girded  (sec  Acts  27:17). 

4  woundily.     Excessively. 


212 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Loud   sang  the   souls   of  the  jolly,   jolly 

mariners, 
Plucking  at  their  harps,  and  they  plucked 
unhandily: 
"Our  thumbs  are  rough  and  tarred, 
And   the  tune   is   something  hard — 
May  we  lift  a  Deepsea  Chantey^  such  as 
seamen  use  at  sea?"  40 

Then  said  the  souls  of  the  gentlemen-ad- 
venturers— 
Fettered  wrist  to  bar  all  for  red  iniquity: 
"Ho,  we  revel  in  our  chains 
O'er  the  sorrow  that  was  Spain's; 
Heave  or  sink  it,  leave  or  drink  it,  we 
were  masters  of  the  sea!" 

Up   spake  the  soul   of  a  gray   Gothavn 

*speckshioner2 — 
(He  that  led  the  flinching^  in  the  fleets 
of   fair  Dundee)  : 
"Ho,  the  ringer  and  right  whale. 
And  the  fish  we  struck  for  sale. 
Will  Ye  whelm  them  all   for  wantonness 
that  wallow  in  the  sea?"  50 

Loud   sang  the  souls  of  the   jolly,  jolly 

mariners, 
Crying:  "Under  Heaven,  here  is  neither 
lead    nor    lea ! 
Must  we  sing  for  evermore 
On  the  windless,  glassy  floor? 
Take  back  your  golden  fiddles  and  we'll 
beat  to  open  sea!" 

Then  stooped  the  Lord,  and  He  called  the 

good  sea  up  to  Him, 
And  'stablished  his  borders  unto  all  eter- 
nity, 
That  such  as  have  no  pleasure 
For  to  praise  the  Lord  by  measure,* 
They  may  enter  into  galleons  and  serve 
Him  on  the  sea.  60 

Sun,  wind,  and  cloud  shall  fail  not  from 

the  face  of  it, 
Stinging,   ringing   spindrift,   nor  the   ful- 
mars  flying  free ; 
And  the  ships  shall  go  abroad 
To  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Who  heard  the  silly^  sailor-folk  and  gave 
them  back  their   sea ! 

(1895) 

I   Deepsea     Chantey.     Pronounced         "  Dipsy 
Shanty";  a  chantey  is  a  sailor's  song. 

a  'speckshioner.     Chief  harpooner  of  a  whaler. 

3  flinching.     Cutting  of  whale-blubber. 

4  by  measure.     In  song. 

5  fulmar.     Petrel. 

6  silly.     Poor. 


CRAVEN 

(MOBILE   BAY,   1864) 
HENRY  NEWBOLT 

Over   the    turret,    shut    in    his    iron-clad 
tower. 
Craven   was   conning  his   ship  through 
smoke  and  flame ; 
Gun  to  gun  he  had  battered  the  fort  for 
an  hour, 
Now  was  the  time  for  a  charge  to  end 
the  game. 

There  lay  the  narrowing  channel,  smooth 
and  grim, 
A  hundred  deaths  beneath  it,  and  never 
a  sign; 
There  lay  the  enemy's  ships,  and  sink  or 
swim 
The  flag  was  flying,  and  he  was  head  of 
the  line. 

The  fleet  behind  was  jamming;  the  moni- 
tor hung 
Beating   the    stream;    the   roar    for   a 
moment  hushed,  10 

Craven    spoke    to    the    pilot;    slow    she 
swung ; 
Again  he  spoke,  and  right  for  the  foe 
she  rushed. 

Into  the  narrowing  channel,  between  the 
shore 
And  the  sunk  torpedoes  lying  in  treach- 
erous rank; 
She  turned  but  a  yard  too  short ;  a  muffled 
roar, 
A  mountainous  wave,  and  she  rolled, 
righted,  and  sank. 

Over  the  manhole,  up   in  the   iron-clad 
tower. 
Pilot  and  Captain  met  as  they  turned 
to  fly: 
The  hundredth  part  of  a  moment  seemed 
an  hour, 
For  one  could  pass  to  be  saved,  and  one 
must  die.  20 

They  stood  like  men  in  a  dream :  Craven 
spoke, 
Spoke  as  he  lived  and  fought,  with  a 
Captain's  pride, 
"After  you,  Pilot."    The  pilot  woke, 
Down  the  ladder  he  went,  and  Craven 
died. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


213 


All  men  praise  the  deed  and  the  manner, 
but  we — 
We    set    it   apart    from    the   pride   that 
stoops  to  the  proud, 
The  strength  that  is  supple  to  serve  the 
strong  and  free, 
The    grace    of    the    empty    hands    and 
promises  loud : 

Sidney^  thirsting,  a  humbler  need  to  slake, 
Nelson    waiting   his    turn    for   the    sur- 
geon's hand,  30 
Lucas    crushed    with    chains    for   a    com- 
rade's sake, 
Outram2    coveting    right    before    com- 
mand: 

These  were  paladins,  these  were  Craven's 
peers, 
These   with   him   shall   be   crowned   in 
story  and  song, 
Crowned  with  the  glitter  of  steel  and  the 
glimmer  of  tears. 
Princes    of    courtesy,    merciful,    proud, 
and  strong. 

(1898) 


GILLESPIE 

HENRY  NEWBOLT 

[This  ballad  relates  an  incident  of  July  10, 
1806,  when  General  Robert  Gillespie,  a  British 
officer,  saved  the  fort  at  Vellore  during  a  native 
mutiny.] 

Riding  at  dawn,  riding  alone, 
Gillespie  left  the  town  behind ; 

Before  he  turned  by  the  westward  road 
A    horseman    crossed    him,    staggering 
blind. 

"The  Devil's  abroad  in  false  Vellore, 
The  Devil  that  stabs  by  night,"  he  said, 

"Women  and  children,  rank  and  file, 
Dying  and  dead,  dying  and  dead." 

Without  a  word,  without  a  groan, 

Sudden  and  swift  Gillespie  turned;     10 

The  blood  roared  in  his  ears  like  fire. 
Like  fire  the  road  beneath  him  burned. 

1  At  the  battle  of  Zutphen,  1586,  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  himself  sorely  wounded,  gave  the  water 
provided  for  him  to  a  dying  foot- soldier,  saying. 
"Thy  necessity  is  greater  than  mine." 

2  James  Outram,  British  General,  who  voluntar- 
ily yielded  to  Havelock,  a  junior  officer,  the  honor 
of  commanding  the  expedition  for  the  relief  of  Luck- 
now,  in  1857. 


He  thundered  back  to  Arcot  gate. 

He  thundered  up  through  Arcot  town; 

Before  he  thought  a  second  thought 
In  the  barrack  yard  he  lighted  down. 

"Trumpeter,    sound    for   the   Light    Dra- 
goons, 

Sound  to  saddle  and  spur,"  he  said; 
"He  that  is  ready  may  ride  with  me. 

And  he  that  can  may  ride  ahead."      20 

Fierce  and  fain,  fierce  and  fain. 
Behind  him  went  the  troopers  grim ; 

They  rode  as  ride  the  Light  Dragoons, 
But  never  a  man  could  ride  with  him. 

Their  rowels  ripped  their  horses'  sides. 
Their   hearts  were   red   with   a  deeper 
goad, 

But  ever  alone  before  them  all 
Gillespie  rode,  Gillespie  rode. 

Alone  he  came  to  false  Vellore, 
The   walls   were  lined,  the  gates  were 
barred;  3° 

Alone  he  walked  where  the  bullets  bit. 
And    called    above    to    the    Sergeant's 
Guard. 

"Sergeant,  Sergeant,  over  the  gate, 

Where  are  your  officers  all?"  he  said; 

Heavily  came  the  Sergeant's  voice, 
"There  are  two  living  and  forty  dead." 

"A  rope,  a  rope,"  Gillespie  cried : 
They   bound    their    belts    to    serve   his 
need; 

There  was  not  a  rebel  behind  the  wall  39 
But  laid  his  barrel  and  drew  his  bead. 

There  was  not  a  rebel  among  them  all  _ 
But  pulled  his  trigger  and  cursed  his 
aim. 

For  lightly  swung  and  rightly  swung 
Over  the  gate  Gillespie  came. 

He  dressed  the  line,  he  led  the  charge,^ 
They  swept  the  wall  like  a  stream  in 
spate. 

And  roaring  over  the  roar  they  heard 
The  galloper  guns  that  burst  the  gate. 

Fierce  and  fain,  fierce  and  fain. 
The  troopers  rode  the  reeking  flight :  50 

The  very  stones  remember  still 
The  end  of  them  that  stab  by  night 


214 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


They've  kept  the  tale  a  hundred  years, 
They'll  keep  the  tale  a  hundred  more; 

Riding  at  dawn,  riding  alone, 
Gillespie  came  to  false  Vellore. 

(1898) 


FORTY   SINGING  SEAMEN* 

ALFRED   NOYES 

[The  poet  combines  the  materials  of  a  sailors' 
"chantey"  with  the  Greek  legend  of  Polyphemus 
and  the  medieval  legend  of  Prester  John.  Poly- 
phemus was  a  one-eyed  giant,  or  Cyclops,  whom 
Ulysses  blinded.  Prester  John  was  a  mysterious 
personage,  both  priest  and  king,  ruling  over  a 
wonderful  empire  in  the  far  East.] 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Moga- 
dore   we  plodded, 
Forty  singing  seamen  in  an  old  black 
barque, 
And  we  landed  in  the  twilight  where  a 
Polyphemus    nodded 
With    his    battered    moon-eye    winking 
red  and  yellow  through  the   dark. 
For  his  eye  was  growing  mellow, 
Rich  and  ripe  and  red  and  yellow, 
As  was  time  since  old  Ulysses  made  him 

bellow  in  the  dark ! 
Chorus. — Since    Ulysses   bunged    his    eye 
up  with  a  pine-torch  in  the  dark ! 

Were  they  mountains  in  the  gloaming  or 

the  giant's  ugly   shoulders 

Just  beneath  the  rolling  eyeball,  with  its 

bleared  and  vinous  glow,  10 

Red   and  yellow  o'er   the   purple   of  the 

pines  among  the   boulders 
And  the  shaggy  horror  brooding  on  the 
sullen    slopes    below, 

IVere  they  pines  among  the  boul- 
ders 
Or  the  hair  upon  his  shoulders? 
We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course 

we  didn't  know. 
Cho. — We    were    simple    singing   seamen, 
so  of  course  we  couldn't  know. 


But  we  crossed  a  plain  of  poppies,  and  we 
came  upon  a  fountain 
Not  of  water,  but  of  jewels,  like  a  spray 
of  leaping  fire; 

*  Reprinted   by   permission    of   the   author   and 
Frederick  A.   Stokes  Company,  publishers. 


And  behind  it,  in  an  emerald  glade,  be- 
neath a  golden  mountain. 
There  stood  a  crystal  palace,  for  a  sailor 
to  admire ;  20 

For  a  troop  of  ghosts  came  round 

us, 
Which    with    leaves    of    bay    they 
crowned  us. 
Then  with  grog  they  well-nigh  drowned 

us,  to  the  depth  of  our  desire ! 
Cho. — And  'twas  very  friendly  of  them, 
as  a  sailor  can  admire! 

There  was  music  all  about  us, — we  were 
growing  quite  forgetful 
We  were  only  singing  seamen  from  the 
dirt  of  London-town, 
Though    the    nectar    that    we    swallowed 
seemed  to  vanish  half  regretful 
As  if  we  wasn't  good  enough  to  take 
such  vittles  down, — 
When  we  saw  a  sudden  figure. 
Tall  and  black  as  any  nigger,        .30 
Like  the  devil — only  bigger — drawing  near 

us  with  a  frown! 
Cho. — Like  the  devil — but  much  bigger — 
and  he  wore  a  golden  crown! 

And  "What's  all  this?"  he  growls  at  us! 
With  dignity  we  chaunted, 
"Forty  singing  seamen,  sir,  as  won't  be 
put  upon !" 
"What?   Englishmen?"  he  cries.     "Well, 
if  ye  don't  mind  being  haunted, 
Faith,   you're   welcome    to   my   palace; 
I'm  the  famous  Prester  John ! 
Will  ye  walk  into  my  palace? 
I  don't  bear  'ee  any  malice ! 
One  and  all  ye  shall  be  welcome  in  the 
halls   of   Prester  John." 
Cho. — So  we  walked  into  the  palace  and 
the  halls  of  Prester  John !  40 

Now  the   door  was   one  great   diamond 
and  the  hall  a  hollow  ruby — 
Big  as  Beachy  Head,  my  lads,  nay  big- 
ger by  a  half! 
And    I    sees   the   mate   wi'   mouth   agape, 
a-staring  like  a  booby. 
And  the  skipper  close  behind  him,  with 
his  tongue  out  like  a  calf! 
Now  the  way  to  take  it  rightly 
Was  to  walk  along  politely 
Just    as    if    you     didn't    notice — so    I 
couldn't   help  but   laugh ! 
Cho. — For    they   both    forgot   their    man- 
ners and  the  crew  was  bound  to  laugh ! 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


215 


But  he  took  us  through  his  palace  and, 
my   lads,   as    I'm   a   sinner, 
We  walked  into  an  opal  like  a  sunset- 
colored  cloud —  50 
"My  dining-room,"  he  says,  and,  quick  as 
light  we  saw  a  dinner 
Spread  before  us  by  the  fingers  of  a 
hidden  fairy  crowd; 
And  the  skipper,  swaying  gently 
After  dinner,  murmurs  faintly, 
"I   looks   to-wards   you,    Prester   John, 
you've   done   us   very   proud !" 
Cho. — And  we  drank  his  health  with  hon- 
ors, for  he  done  us  very  proud! 

Then  he  walks  us  to  his   garden  where 
we  sees  a  feathered  demon 
Very  splendid  and  important  on  a  sort 
of  spicy  tree ! 
"That's    the   phoenix,"    whispers    Prester, 
"which  all  eddicated  seamen 
Knows  the  only  one  existent,  and  he's 
waiting  for  to  flee !  60 

When  his  hundred  years  expire 
Then  he'll  set  hisself  afire 
And  another  from  his  ashes  rise  most 
beautiful  to  see!" 
Cho. — With  wings  of  rose  and  emerald 
most  beautiful  to  see! 

Then  he  says,  "In  yonder  forest  there's 
a  little  silver  river, 
And  whosoever  drinks  of  it,  his  youth 
shall   never   die ! 
The   centuries   go   by,   but   Prester   John 
endures  for  ever 
With  his  music  in  the  mountains  and 
his  magic  on  the  sky ! 

While  your  hearts  are  growing 

colder, 

While  your  world  is  growing  older. 

There's  a  magic   in   the   distance,   where 

the  sea-line  meets  the  sky."  71 

Cho. — It  shall  call  to  singing  seamen  till 

the  fount  o'  song  is  dry ! 

So  we  thought  we'd  up  and  seek  it,  but 
that  forest  fair  defied  us, — 
First  a  crimson  leopard  laughs   at  us 
most  horrible  to  see. 
Then  a  sea-green  lion  came  and   sniffed 
and  licked  his  chops  and  eyed  us, 
While   a  red   and  yellow   unicorn   was 
dancing  round  a  tree! 
We  was  trying  to  look  thinner, 
Which  was  hard,  because  our  din- 
ner 


Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  a 
cat  o'  high  degree ! 
Cho. — Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to 
the  whole  menarjeree!  80 

So    we    scuttled    from    that    forest    and 
across  the  poppy-meadows 
Where  the  awful  shaggy  horror  brood- 
ed o'er  us  in  the  dark ! 
And    we    pushes    out    from    shore    again, 
a-jumping  at  our  shadows. 
And  pulls  away  most  joyful  to  the  old 
black   barque ! 
And  home  again  we  plodded. 
While  the  Polyphemus  nodded 
With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red 

and  yellow  through  the  dark. 
Cho. — Oh,    the    moon    above    the    moun- 
tains,   red    and    yellow    through    the 
dark! 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Lon- 
don-town we  blundered, 
Forty   singing  seamen   as   was   puzzled 
for  to  know  90 

If  the  visions  that  we  saw  was  caused  by 
— here  again  we  pondered — 
A    tipple    in    a    vision    forty    thousand 
years  ago. 
Could  the  grog  we  dreamt  we 

swallowed 
Make  us  dream  of  all  that  fol- 
lowed? 
We   were   only    simple    seamen,    so   of 
course   we    didn't   know ! 
Cho. — We   were    simple    singing   seamen, 
so  of  course  we  could  not  know ! 

(1906) 


THE  LISTENERS 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  said  the  Trav- 
eller, 
Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the 
grasses 
Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor: 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret 

Above  the  Traveller's  head : 
And   he  smote  upon  the   door  a   second 
time; 
"Is  there  anybody  there?"  he  said. 


216 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill      lo 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  gray  eyes, 

Where  he   stood  perplexed  and   still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moon- 
light 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men: 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on 
the  dark  stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall. 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call.  20 

And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry. 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark 
turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and   lifted   his  head : — 
"Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered. 

That  I  kept  my  word,"  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake  30 

Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of 
the  still  house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Ay,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup. 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone. 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  back- 
ward. 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 

(1911) 


THE  DAUBER  ROUNDS  CAPE 
HORN* 

JOHN    MASEFIELD 

[From  a  long  narrative  poem,  called  Dauber, 
relating  the  adventures  of  an  English  boy  who 
shipped  as  a_  seaman  because  he  wished  to  be  an 
artist — especially   a  painter   of  the  sea.] 

So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning 

broke — 
Only  a  something  showed  that  night  was 

dead. 
A  sea-bird,  cackling  like  a  devil,  spoke. 
And   the    fog  drew   away   and  hung   like 

lead. 
Like   mighty  cliffs   it   shaped,   sullen   and 

red; 

*  Copyright  by  the  Macmillan  Company.  Re- 
printed from  "f)auher"  by  special  permission  of 
the  publishers  and   the  author.  ,,4^ 


Like  glowering  gods  at  watch  it  did  ap- 
pear, 

And  sometimes  drew  away,  and  then  drew 
near. 

Like  islands,  and  like  chasms,  and  like 
hell, 

But  always  mighty  and  red,  gloomy  and 
ruddy. 

Shutting  the  visible  sea  in  like  a  well ; 

Slow  heaving  in  vast  ripples,  blank  and 
muddy,  11 

Where  the  sun  should  have  risen  it 
streaked  bloody. 

The  day  was  still-born ;  all  the  sea-fowl 
scattering 

Splashed  the  still  water,  mewing,  hover- 
ing, clattering. 

Then   Polar  snow  came  down  little  and 

light. 
Till  all  the  sky  was  hidden  by  the  small, 
Most  multitudinous  drift  of  dirty  white 
Tumbling  and  wavering  down  and  cover- 
ing all — 
Covering  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  clipper  tall, 
Furring  the  ropes  with  white,  casing  the 
mast,  20 

Coming  on  no  known  air,  but  blowing 
past. 

And  all  the  air  seemed  full  of  gradual 
moan, 

As  though  in  those  cloud-chasms  the 
horns  were  blowing 

The  mort^  for  gods  cast  out  and  over- 
thrown, 

Or  for  the  eyeless  sun  plucked  out  and 
going. 

Slow  the  low  gradual  moan  came  in  the 
snowing; 

The  Dauber  felt  the  prelude  had  begun. 

The  snowstorm  fluttered  by;  he  saw  the 
sun 

Show  and  pass  by,  gleam  from  one  tow- 
ering prison 

Into  another,  vaster  and  more  grim,      30 

Which  in  dull  crags  of  darkness  had 
arisen 

To  muffle-to  a  final  door  on  him, 

The  gods  upon  the  dull  crags  lowered 
dim, 

The  pigeons  chattered,  quarreling  in  the 
track. 

In  the  southwest  the  dimness  dulled  to 
black. 

I   mnrl.     Flourish  of  horns  sounded  at  the  death 
of  hunted  game. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


217 


Then  came  the  cry  of  "Call  all  hands  on 

deck !" 
The   Dauber   knew    its    meaning;    it    was 

come: 
Cape    Horn,    that    tramples    beauty    into 

wreck, 
And  crumples  steel,  and  smites  the  strong 

man  dumb. 
Down  clattered  flying  kites  and  staysails : 

some  40 

Sang  out   in   quick,  high  calls :   the   fair- 

leads^   skirled, 
And    from    the    southwest    came    the    end 

of  the  world ! 

"Is  it  cold  on  deck?"  said  Dauber.    "Is  it 

cold? 
We're  sheeted  up,  I  tell  you,  inches  thick ! 
The  fo'c'sle's  like  a  wedding-cake,  I'm  told. 
Now  tumble  out,  my  sons;  on  deck,  here, 

quick ! 
Rouse  out,  away,  and  come  and  climb  the 

stick. 
I'm  going  to  call  the  half-deck.     Bosun ! 

Hey! 
Both    topsails    coming    in.      Heave    out ! 

Away !" 

He  went ;  the  Dauber  tumbled  •  from  his 
bunk,  50 

Clutching  the  side.  He  heard  the  wind 
go  past, 

Making  the  great  ship  wallow  as  if  drunk. 

There  was  a  shocking  tumult  up  the  mast. 

"This  is  the  end,"  he  muttered,  "come  at 
last. 

I've  got  to  go  aloft,  facing  this  cold. 

I  can't.    I  can't.    I'll  never  keep  my  hold. 

"I  cannot  face  the  topsail  yard  again. 
I  never  guessed  what  misery  it  would  be." 
The  cramps  and  hot-ache  made  him  sick 

with    pain. 
The  ship  stopped  suddenly  from  a  devilish 

sea,  60 

Then,  with  a  triumph  of  wash,  a  rush  of 

glee. 
The  door  burst  in,  and  in  the  water  rolled, 
Filling  the  lower  bunks,  black,  creaming, 

cold. 

The  lamp  sucked  out.    "Wash !"  went  the 

water  back. 
Then  in  again,  flooding;  the  Bosun  swore. 
"You  useless  thing !     You  Dauber  !     You 

lee  slack ! 

r  fairleads.     Rings    through   which    the  rigging 
runs. 


Get  out,  you  heekapoota !     Shut  the  door  ! 
You    coo-ilyaira,    what    are    you    waiting 

for? 
Out  of  my  way,  you  thing — you   useless 

thing!" 
He  slammed  the  door  indignant,  clanging 

the  ring.  70 


And  then  he  lit  the  lamp,  drowned  to  the 
waist; 

"Here's  a  fine  house !  Get  at  the  scup- 
per-holes"— 

He  bent  against  it  as  the  water  raced — 

"And  pull  them  out  to  leeward  when  she 
rolls. 

They  say  some  kinds  of  landsmen  don't 
have  souls. 

I  well  believe.    A  Port  Mahon  baboon 

Would  make  more  soul  than  you  got  with 
a  spoon." 

Down  in  the  icy  water  Dauber  groped 
To  find  the  plug;  the  racing  water  sluiced 
Over  his  head  and  shoulders  as  she  sloped. 
Without,    judged    by    the    sound,    all    hell 

was  loosed.  81 

He    felt    cold    Death    about    him    tightly 

noosed; 
That   Death  was   better  than   the  misery 

there 
Iced  on  the  quaking  foothold  high  in  air. 

And  then  the  thought  came:  "I'm  a  fail- 
ure.    All 

My  life  has  been  a  failure.  They  were 
right. 

It  will  not  matter  if  I  go  and  fall; 

I  should  be  free  then  from  this  hell's  de- 
light. 

I'll  never  paint.     Best  let  it  end  to-night. 

I'll  slip  over  the  side.  I've  tried  and 
failed."  90 

So  in  the  ice-cold  in  the  night  he  quailed. 

Death  would  be  better,   death,  than  this 

long  hell 
Of  mockery  and  surrender  and  dismay — 
This  long  defeat  of  doing  nothing  well, 
Playing  the  part  too  high  for  him  to  play. 
"O    Death !    who    hides    the    sorry    thing 

away, 
Take  me ;  I've  failed.    I  cannot  play  these 

cards." 
There  came  a  thundering  from  the  topsail 

yards. 


218 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  then  he  bit  his  lips,  clenching  his 
mind, 

And  staggered  out  to  master,  beating  back 

The  coward  frozen  self  of  him  that 
whined.  loi 

Come  what  cards  might,  he  meant  to  play 
the  pack. 

"Ai!"  screamed  the  wind;  the  topsail 
sheet  went  clack; 

Ice  filled  the  air  with  spikes;  the  gray- 
backs  burst. 

"Here's  Dauber,"  said  the  Mate,  "on  deck 
the  first. 

"Why,  holy  sailor.  Dauber,  you're  a  man ! 
I  took  you  for  a  soldier.    Up  now,  come !" 
Up  on  the  yards  already  they  began 
That  battle  with  a  gale  which  strikes  men 

dumb. 
The  leaping  topsail  thundered  like  a  drum. 
The   frozen   snow   beat   in  the   face  like 

shots.  ^  III 

The  wind  spun  whipping  wave-crests  into 

clots. 

So  up  upon  the  topsail  yard  again, 
In  the  great  tempest's  fiercest  hour,  began 
Probation  to  the  Dauber's  soul,  of  pain 
Which  crowds  a  century's  torment  in  a 

span. 
For  the  next  month  the  ocean  taught  this 

man, 
And  he,  in  that  month's  torment,  while 

she  wested. 
Was  never  warm  nor  dry,  nor  full  nor 

rested. 

But  still  it  blew,  or,  if  it  lulled,  it  rose   120 
Within  the  hour  and  blew  again;  and  still 
The  water  as  it  burst  aboard  her  froze. 
The  wind  blew  off  an  ice-field,  raw  and 

chill. 
Daunting  man's  body,  tampering  with  his 

will; 
But  after  thirty  days  a  ghostly  sun 
Gave  sickly  promise  that  the  storms  were 

done. 

A  great  gray  sea  was  running  up  the  sky, 

Desolate  birds  flew  past;  their  mewings 
came 

As  that  lone  water's  spiritual  cry. 

Its  forlorn  voice,  its  essence,  its  soul's 
name.  130 

The  ship  limped  in  the  water  as  if  lame; 

Then  in  the  forenoon  watch  to  a  great 
shout 

More  sail  was  made,  the  reefs  were  shak- 
en out. 


A  slant  came  from  the  south;  the  singers 

stood 
Clapped  to  the  halliards,  hauling  to  a  tune. 
Old  as  the  sea,  a  fillip  to  the  blood. 
The  upper  topsail  rose  like  a  balloon. 
"So    long,    Cape    Stiff.      In    Valparaiso 

soon," 
Said  one  to  other,  as  the  ship  lay  over, 
Making  her  course  again — again  a  rover. 

Slowly  the  sea  went  down  as  the  wind  fell. 
Clear    rang    the    songs,    "Hurrah!    Cape 

Horn  is  bet  l"^  142 

The    combless    seas    were    lumping    into 

swell ; 
The  leaking  fo'c'sles  were  no  longer  wet. 
More  sail  was  made;  the  watch  on  deck 

was  set 
To  cleaning  up  the  ruin  broken  bare 
Below,  aloft,  about  her,  everywhere. 

The  Dauber,  scrubbing  out  the  round- 
house, found 

Old  pantiles  pulped  among  the  mouldy 
gear. 

Washed  underneath  the  bunks  and  long 
since  drowned  150 

During  the  agony  of  the  Cape  Horn  year. 

He  sang  in  scrubbing,  for  he  had  done 
with  fear — 

Fronted  the  worst  and  looked  it  in  the 
face; 

He  had  got  manhood  at  the  testing-place. 

(1912) 


THE   STAR* 

SARA  TEASDALE 

A  white  star  born  in  the  evening  glow 
Looked  to  the  round  green  world  below, 
And  saw  a  pool  in  a  wooded  place 
That  held  like  a  jewel  her  mirrored  face. 
She  said  to  the  pool :  "Oh,  wondrous  deep, 
I  love  you,  I  give  you  my  light  to  keep. 
Oh,  more  profound  than  the  moving  sea 
That  never  has  shown  myself  to  me! 
Oh,  fathomless  as  the  sky  is  far. 
Hold  forever  your  tremulous  star!"       10 

But  out  of  the  woods  as  night  grew  cool 
A  brown  pig  came  to  the  little  pool; 

•  Reprinted  from  a  volume  called  "Rivers  to 
the  Sea,"  published  by  the  Macmillan  Company, 
and  reprinted  by  special  permission. 

I  bet.    Beaten. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


219 


It  grunted  and  splashed  and  waded  in, 
And  the  deepest  place  but  reached  its  chin. 
The  water  gurgled  with  tender  glee 
And  the  mud  churned  up  in  it  turbidly. 

The  star  grew  pale  and  hid  her  face 
In  a  bit  of  a  floating  cloud  like  lace. 

(1915) 


THE  FINDING  OF  JAMIE* 

JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 

[This  is  the  last  section  of  a  modern  epic 
called  The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass,  dealing  with 
men  concerned  in  the  hunting  and  trapping  ad- 
ventures of  the  American  fur-trade  in  the  North- 
west. The  incidents  of  the  poem  occurred  in 
1823-25.  Jamie^  young  and  golden-haired,  was 
the  devoted  fnend  of  the  old  hunter,  Hugh 
Glass,  who  had  once  saved  his  life  in  a  fight  with 
the  Ree  Indians.  Hugh,  alone  on  the  range  near 
the  Grand  River,  had  been  attacked  by  a  bear 
and  wounded  almost  to  death;  Jamie,  finding 
him,  watched  alone  with  the  unconscious  man 
through  the  night,  and  then  for  three  more 
nights  in  company  with  friends.  Recovery  seem- 
ing hopeless,  Jamie's  companion,  Jules,  dug  a 
grave  for  Hugh,  but  still  he  did  not  die.  Finally, 
when  there  was  danger  of  an  attack  by  Indians, 
Jamie  was  persuaded  to  leave  his  friend  and 
rejoin,  with  Jules,  the  main  body  of  the  men; 
they  took  with  them  Hugh's  gun,  flint,  and  knife. 
At  length,  coming  to  himself,  and  finding  that 
he  had  been  deserted  and  robbed,  the  wounded 
man  crawled  across  the  plain  to  the  Missouri 
River,  where  he  built  a  raft  and  drifted  down 
to  Kiowa.  Convinced  that  Jamie  had  been  a 
traitor  to  him,  he  set  out  to  find  him,  at  first 
with  only  vengeance  in  his  heart.  It  should  be 
noticed  that  the  poet  seeks  to  present  not  only 
the  epic  story  of  the  hunters  in  the  primitive  era 
of  the  Northwest,  but  also  what  may  be  called 
the  epic  march  of  nature,  of  the  seasons,  on  the 
great  plains.] 

The  country  of  the  Crows 
Through   which   the   Big   Horn   and   the 

Rosebud  run,^ 
Sees  over  mountain-peaks  the  setting  sun ; 
And    southward    from    the    Yellowstone 

flung  wide, 
It  broadens  ever  to  the  morning  side 
And  has  the  Powder  on  its  vague  fron- 
tier. 
About  the  subtle  changing  of  the  year, 
Ere  even  favored  valleys  felt  the  stir 
Of  Spring,  and  yet  expectancy  of  her 

*  From  "The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass,"  copyright 
by  the  Macmillan  Company,  1915.  Reprinted 
by  special  permission. 

I  Big  Horn  .  .  .  Rosebud.  These  rivers  (and 
the  Powder)  are  in — what  is  now — southeastern 
Montana. 


Was  like  a  pleasant  rumor  all  repeat      10 
Yet  none  may  prove,  the  sound  of  horses' 

feet 
Went  eastward  through  the  silence  of  that 

land. 
For  then  it  was  there  rode  a  little  band 
Of  trappers  out  of  Henry's  Post,^  to  bear 
Dispatches  down  to  Atkinson,  and  there 
To  furnish  out  a  keelboat  for  the  Horn. 
And    four    went    lightly,    but    the    fifth 

seemed  worn 
As  with  a  heavy  heart;  for  that  was  he 
Who  should  have  died  but  did  not. 

Silently 
He  heard  the  careless  parley  of  his  men. 
And  thought   of  how  the   Spring  should 

come  again,  21 

That  garish  strumpet  with  her  world-old 

lure, 
To  waken  hope  where  nothing  may  en- 
dure, 
To  quicken  love  where  loving  is  betrayed. 
Yet  now  and  then  some  dream  of  Jamie 

made 
Slow  music  in  him  for  a  little  while; 
And  they  who  rode  beside  him  saw  a  smile 
Glimmer  upon  that  ruined  face  of  gray, 
As  on  a  winter  fog  the  groping  day 
Pours  glory  through  a  momentary  rift.  30 
Yet  never  did  the  gloom  that  bound  him 

lift; 
He   seemed  as   one  who   feeds  upon  his 

heart, 
And    finds,    despite    the    bitter    and    the 

smart, 
A  little  sweetness  and  is  glad  for  that. 

Now  up  the  Powder,  striking  for  the 
Platte'' 

Across  the  bleak  divide  the  horsemen 
went; 

Attained  that  river  where  its  course  is 
bent 

From  north  to  east :  and  spurring  on 
apace 

Along  the  wintry  valley,  reached  the  place 

Where  from  the  west  flows  in  the  Lara- 
mie. 40 

Thence,  fearing  to  encounter  with  the 
Ree, 

They  headed  eastward  through  the  bar- 
ren land, 

To  where,  fleet-footed  down  a  track  of 
sand, 

2  Henry's  Post.     At  the  junction  of  the  Yellow- 
stone and  Big  Horn  rivers. 

3  the  Platte.     In  eastern  Wyoming. 


220 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  Niobrara^  races  for  the  morn — 

A  gaunt-loined  runner.     Here  at  length 

was  born 
Upon  the  southern  slopes  the  baby  Spring, 
A  timid,  fretful,  ill-begotten  thing, 
A-suckle  at  the  Winter's  withered  paps : 
Not  such  as  when  announced  by  thunder- 
claps 
And  ringed  with  swords  of  lightning,  she 

would  ride,  50 

The  haughty  victrix  and  the  mystic  bride, 
Clad  splendidly  as  never  Sheba's  Queen, 
Before  her  marching  multitudes  of  green 
In    many-bannered    triumph !      Grudging, 

slow, 
Amid  the  fraying  fringes  of  the  snow 
The   bunch-grass   sprouted;   and   the   air 

was  chill. 
Along  the   northern   slopes   'twas   winter 

still. 
And  no  root  dreamed  what  Triumph  over 

Death 
Was  nurtured  now  in  some  bleak  Naza- 
reth 
Beyond  the  crest  to  sunward.     On  they 

spurred  60 

Through   vacancies   that   waited    for   the 

bird, 
And  everywhere  the  Odic^  Presence  dwelt. 
The   Southwest  blew,  the  snow  began  to 

melt; 
And  when  they  reached  the  valley  of  the 

Snake, 
The  Niobrara's  ice  began  to  break, 
And  all   night  long  and  all   day  long  it 

made 
A  sound  as  of  a  random  cannonade 
With  rifles  snarling  down  a  skirmish  line. 

The   geese   went   over.     Every   tree   and 

vine 
Was    dotted   thick    with    leaf-buds    when 

they  saw  70 

The  little  river  of  Keyapaha 
Grown    mighty    for   the    moment.     Then 

they  came, 
One    evening    when    all    thickets     were 

aflame 
With  pale  green  witch-fires,  and  the  wind- 
flowers  blew. 
To  where  the  headlong  Niobrara  threw 
His    speed    against   the    swoln    Missouri's 

flank 
And    hurled    him   roaring  to  the    further 

bank — 

I  the  Niobrara.      In  northwestern  Nebraska. 
a  Odic.      Mysteriously    magnetic    (from    a    sup- 
posed vital  force  called  od). 


A  giant  staggered  by  a  pigmy's  sling. 
Thence,  plunging  ever  deeper  into  Spring, 
Across  the  greening  prairie  east  by  south 
They   rode,   and,   just  above   the   Platte's 
wide   mouth,  81 

Came,  weary  with  the  trail,  to  Atkinson. ^ 
There    all   the    vernal    wonder-work    was 

done: 
No  care-free  heart  might  find  aught  lack- 
ing there.    .    .    . 

Might  not  the  sad  forget, 
The   happy   here   have   nothing   more   to 

seek? 
Lo,  yonder,  by  that  pleasant  little  creek. 
How  one  might  loll  upon  the  grass  and 

fish. 
And  build  the  temple  of  one's  wildest  wish 
'Twixt  nibbles !     Surely  there  was  quite 
enough  90 

Of  wizard-timber  and  of  wonder-stuff 
To  rear  it  nobly  to  the  blue-domed  roof ! 

Yet  there  was  one  whose  spirit  stood  aloof 
From  all  this  joyousness — a  gray  old  man, 
No  nearer  now  than  when  the  quest  began 
To  what  he  sought  on  that  long  winter 

trail. 
Aye,  Jamie  had  been  there;  but  when  the 

tale 
That  roving  trappers  brought   from   Ki- 
owa* 
Was  told  to  him,  he  seemed  as  one  who 

saw 
A  ghost,  and  could  but  stare  on  it,  they 
said:  100 

Until  one  day  he  mounted  horse  and  fled 
Into  the  North,  a  devil-ridden  man. 
"I've  got  to  go  and  find  him  if  I  can," 
Was  all  he  said  for  days  before  he  left. 

And  what  of  Hugh?    So  long  of  love  be- 
reft. 
So  long  sustained  and  driven  by  his  hate, 
A  touch  of  ruth  now  made  him  desolate. 
No  longer  eager  to  avenge  the  wrong. 
With  not  enough  of  pity  to  be  strong 
And   just   enough   of  love  to   choke  and 
sting,  no 

A  gray  old  hulk  amid  the  surge  of  Spring 
He  floundered  on  a  lee-shore  of  the  heart. 
But  when  the  boat  was  ready  for  the  start 
Up  the  long  watery  stairway  to  the  Horn, 
Hugh  joined  the  party.  And  the  year 
was   shorn 

3  Atkinson.  Near  the  present  Fort  Calhoun, 
Nebraska. 

4  Kiowa.  On  the  Missouri  River,  about  three 
miles  above  the  mouth  of  the  White,  in  what  is  now 
southern  South  Dakota. 


NARRATIVE   POEMS 


221 


Of  blooming  girlhood  as  they  forged 
amain 

Into  the  North;  the  late  green-mantled 
plain 

Grew  sallow ;  and  the  ruthless  golden 
shower 

Of  Summer  wrought  in  lust  upon  the 
flower 

That  withered  in  the  endless  martyrdom 

To  seed.  The  scarlet  quickened  on  the 
plum  121 

About  the  Heart's  mouth^  when  they  came 
thereto ; 

Among  the  Mandans^  grapes  were  turn- 
ing blue, 

And  they  were  purple  at  the  Yellowstone. 

A  frosted  scrub-oak,  standing  out  alone 

Upon  a  barren  bluff  top,  gazing  far 

Above  the  crossing  at  the  Powder's  bar,' 

Was  spattered  with  the  blood  of  Summer 
slain. 

So  it  was  Autumn  in  the  world  again, 

And  all  those  months  of  toil  had  yielded 
naught  130 

To  Hugh.  (How  often  is  the  seeker 
sought 

By  what  he  seeks — a  blind,  heart-break- 
ing game !) 

For  always  had  the  answer  been  the  same 

From  roving  trapper  and  at  trading-post : 

Aye,  one  who  seemed  to  stare  upon  a 
ghost 

And  followed  willy-nilly  where  it  led. 

Had  gone  that  way  in  search  of  Hugh, 
they  said — 

A  haggard,  blue-eyed,  yellow-headed  chap. 

And  often  had  the  old  man  thought,  "May- 
hap 

He'll  be  at  Henry's  Post  and  we  shall 
meet ;  140 

And  to  forgive  and  to  forget  were  sweet : 

'Tis  for  its  nurse  that  Vengeance  whets 
the  tooth! 

And  oh  the  golden  time  of  Jamie's  youth, 

That  it  should  darken  for  a  graybeard's 
whim !" 

So  Hugh  had  brooded,  till  there  came  on 
him 

The  pity  of  a  slow  rain  after  drouth. 

But  at  the  crossing  of  the  Rosebud's 
mouth 

1  the  Heart's  mouth.     In  North  Dakota  (now  the 
site  of  Bismarck). 

2  Mandans.     Villages  of  the   Mandan   Indians, 
on  the  Missouri  River,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Knife. 

3  Powder's  bar.     Again  in  Montana. 


A  shadow  fell  upon  his  growing  dream. 
A  band  of  Henry's  traders,  bound  down 

stream. 
Who  paused  to  traffic  in  the  latest  word — 
Down-river   news    for    matters    seen    and 

heard  151 

In  higher  waters — had  not  met  the  lad. 
Nor  yet  encountered  anyone  who  had. 
Alas,  the  journey  back  to  yesterwhiles ! 
How    tangled   are   trails !      The   stubborn 

miles. 
How  wearily  they  stretch !     And  if  one 

win 
The  long  way  back  in  search  of  what  has 

been, 
Shall  he   find   aught  that  is   not   strange 

and  new? 
Thus    wrought    the    melancholy    news    in 

Hugh, 
As  he  turned  back  with  those  who  brought 

the  news;  160 

For  more  and  more  he   dreaded  now  to 

lose 
What   doubtful    seeking   rendered    doubly 

dear. 
And  in  the  time  when  keen  winds  stripped 

the  year 
He  came  with  those  to  where  the  Poplar* 

joins 
The  greater  river.     There  Assiniboines, 
Rich    from    the    summer's    hunting,    had 

come  down 
And    flung   along    the    flat    their    ragged 

town. 
That  traders  might  bring  goods  and  win- 
ter there. 

So  leave  the  heartsick  graybeard.    Other- 
where 
The  final  curtain  rises  on  the  play.        170 
'Tis  dead  of  winter  now.     For  day  on  day 
The  blizzard  wind  has  thundered,  sweep- 
ing wide 
From  Mississippi  to  the  Great  Divide 
Out  of  the  North  beyond  Saskatchewan. 
Brief   evening   glimmers   like   an    inverse 

dawn 
After  a  long  white  night.     The  tempest 

dies ; 
The  snow-haze  lifts.    Now  let  the  curtain 

rise 
Upon  Milk  River  valley,  and  reveal 
The    stars    like    broken   glass   on    frosted 
steel 

4  the  Poplar.  That  is,  the  junction  of  the 
Poplar  and  the  Missouri;  Hugh  returns  with  the 
trappers  to  (what  is  now)  northeastern  Montana. 


222 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Above  the  Piegan  lodges,  huddled  deep 

In   snowdrifts,    like   a   freezing   flock   of 
sheep.  i8i 

A  crystal  weight,  the  dread  cold  crushes 
down, 

And  no  one  moves  about  the  little  town. 

That  seems  to  grovel  as  a  thing  that  fears. 

But  see !  a  lodge-flap  swings ;  a  squaw  ap- 
pears. 

Hunched  with  the  sudden  cold.    Her  foot- 
steps creak 

Shrill  in  the  hush.     She  stares  upon  the 
bleak. 

White  skyline  for  a  moment,  then  goes  in. 

We  follow  her,  push  back  the  flap  of  skin. 

Enter  the  lodge,  inhale  the  smoke-tanged 
air  190 

And  blink  upon  the  little  faggot-flare 

That  blossoms  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

Unsteady  shadows  haunt  the  outer  gloom 

Wherein  the  walls  are  guessed  at.     Up- 
ward, far, 

The  smoke-vent  now  and  then   reveals  a 
star 

As  in  a  well.    The  ancient  squaw,  a-stoop. 

Her    face    light-stricken,    stirs    a   pot   of 
soup 

That  simmers  with  a  pleasant  smell  and 
sound. 

A  gnarled  old  man,  cross-legged  upon  the 
ground, 

Sits  brooding  near.     He  feeds  the  flame 
with  sticks;  200 

It  brightens.    Lo,  a  leaden  crucifix 

Upon    the    wall !      These    heathen    eyes, 
though   dim. 

Have  seen  the  white  man's  God  and  cling 
to  Him, 

Lest  on  the  sunset  trail  slow  feet  should 
err. 

But  look  again.    From  yonder  bed  of  fur 

Beside  the  wall  a  white  man  strives  to  rise. 

He  lifts  his  head,  with  yearning  sightless 
eyes 

Gropes  for  the  light.    A  mass  of  golden 
hair 

Falls  round  the  face  that  sickness  and  de- 
spair 

Somehow  make  old,  albeit  he  is  young. 

His  weak  voice,  stumbling  to  the  mongrel 
tongue  211 

Of  traders,  flings  a  question  to  the  squaw : 

"You  saw  no  Black  Robe?^    Tell  me  what 
you  saw  I" 

And   she,   brief-spoken   as   her    race,   re- 
plies: 

"Heaped    snow — sharp   stars — a  kiote   on 
the  rise." 
X  Black  Robe.     Priest. 


The  blind  youth  huddles  moaning  in  the 

furs. 
The  firewood  spits  and  pops,  the  boiled 

pot  purrs 
And  sputters.    On  this  little  isle  of  sound 
The  sea  of  winter  silence  presses  round — 
One    feels    it   like    a   menace.      Now    the 

crone  220 

Dips  out  a  cup  of  soup,  and,  having  blown 
Upon  it,  takes  it  to  the  sick  man  there 
And  bids  him  eat.     With  wild,  unseeing 

stare 
He  turns  upon  her:   "Why   are  they  so 

long? 
I  cannot  eat!    I've  done  a  mighty  wrong; 
It  chokes  me !    Oh,  no,  no,  I  must  not  die 
Until  the  Black  Robe  comes !"    His  feeble 

cry 
Sinks  to  a  whisper.     "Tell  me,  did  they 

go— 
Your  kinsmen?"     "They  went  south  be- 
fore the  snow." 
"And   will    they   tell   the    Black   Robe?" 

"They   will   tell."  230 

The  crackling  of  the  faggots  for  a  spell 
Seems   very   loud.     Again  the   sick  man 

moans 
And,  struggling  with  the  weakness  in  his 

bones. 
Would   gain   his    feet,   but   cannot.     "Go 

again. 
And  tell  me  that  you  see  the  bulks  of  men 
Dim  in  the  distance  there."     The  squaw 

obeys ; 
Returns  anon  to  crouch  beside  the  blaze. 
Numb-fingered   and   a-shudder   from   the 

night. 
The  vacant  eyes  that  hunger  for  the  light 
Are  turned  upon  her :  "Tell  me  what  you 

saw !  240 

Or    maybe    snowshoes    sounded    up    the 

draw.2 
Quick,  tell  me  what  you  saw  and  heard 

out  there !" 
"Heaped  snow — sharp  stars — big  stillness 

everywhere." 

One  clutching  at  thin  ice  with  numbing 

grip 

Cries  while  he  hopes ;  but  when  his  fin- 
gers slip, 

He  takes  the  final  plunge  without  a  sound. 

So   sinks   the  youth   now,   hopeless.     All 
around 

The  winter  silence  presses  in ;  the  walls 

Grow  vague  and  vanish  in  the  gloom  that 
crawls 
2  draw.     Ravine  or  canyon. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS 


223 


Close   to   the   falling   fire.     The   Piegans 

sleep.  250 

Night  hovers  midway  down  the  morning 

steep. 
The    sick    man    drowses.     Nervously    he 

starts 
And  listens;  hears  no  sound  except  his 

heart's 
And  that  weird  murmur  brooding  stillness 

makes. 
But  stealthily  upon  the  quiet  breaks — 
Vague   as   the   coursing   of   the   hearer's 

blood — 
A  muffled,  rhythmic  beating,  thud  on  thud. 
That,  growing  nearer,  deepens  to  a  crunch. 
So,   hungry   for  the   distance,   snowshoes 

munch 
The  crusted  leagues  of  Winter,  stride  by 

stride.  260 

A  camp-dog  barks ;  the  hollow  world  out- 
side 
Brims   with  the  running  howl  of   many 

curs. 
Now  wide-awake,  half  risen  in  the  furs. 
The  youth  can  hear  low  voices  and  the 

creak 
Of  snowshoes  near  the  lodge.     His  thin, 

wild  shriek 
Startles  the  old  folk  from  their  slumber- 

ings: 
"He  comes !    The  Black  Robe."    Now  the 

door-flap  swings, 
And  briefly  one  who  splutters  Piegan  bars 
The  way,  then  enters.    Now  the  patch  of 

stars 
Is    darkened    with    a    greater    bulk    that 

bends  270 

Beneath  the  lintel.     "Peace  be  with  you, 

friends ! 
And  peace  with  him  herein  who  suffers 

pain!" 
So  speaks  the  second  comer  of  the  twain — 
A  white  man  by  his  voice.    And  he  who 

lies 
Beside  the  wall,  with  empty,  groping  eyes 
Turned  to  the  speaker :  "There  can  be  no 

peace 
For  me,   good   Father,  till  this  gnawing 

cease — 
The  gnawing  of  a  great  wrong  I  have 

done." 

The  big  man  leans  above  the  youth:  "My 

son—" 
(Grown  husky  with  the  word,  the  deep 

voice  breaks,  280 

And  for  a  little  spell  the  whole  man  shakes 


As   with  the  clinging  cold)    "have   faith 

and  hope ! 
'Tis  often   nearest   dawn  when  most  we 

grope. 
Does  not  the  Good  Book  say,  Who  seek 

shall  find?" 

"But,  Father,  I  am  broken  now  and  blind. 

And  I  have  sought,  and  I  have  lost  the 
way." 

To  which  the  stranger:  "What  would 
Jesus  say? 

Hark!  In  the  silence  of  the  heart  'tis 
said — 

By  their  own  weakness  are  the  feeble 
sped ;  289 

The  humblest  feet  are  surest  for  the  goal ; 

The  blind  shall  see  the  City  of  the  Soul; 

Lay  down  your  burden  at  His  feet  to- 
night." 

Now  while  the  fire,  replenished,  bathes  in 

light 
The  young  face  scrawled  with  suffering 

and  care. 
Flinging  ironic  glories  on  the  hair 
And    glinting    on    dull    eyes    that    once 

flashed  blue. 
The  sick  one  tells  the  story  of  old  Hugh 
To   him   whose    face,   averted   from   the 

glow, 
Still  lurks  in  gloom.    The  winds  of  battle 

blow 
Once  more  along  the  steep.     Again  one 

sees  300 

The  rescue  from  the  fury  of  the  Rees, 
The  graybeard's  fondness  for  the  gay  lad ; 

then 
The  westward  march  with  Major  Henry's 

men 
With   all  that  happened  there  upon  the 

Grand. 

"And    so    we    hit   the   trail   of   Henry's 

band," 
The  youth  continues;  "for  we  feared  to 

die : 
And  dread  of  shame  was  ready  with  the 

lie 
We  carried  to  our  comrades.    Hugh  was 

dead 
And  buried  there  beside  the  Grand,  we 

said. 
Could  any  doubt  that  what  we  said  was 

true?  310 

They  even  praised  our  courage!     But  I 

knew! 


224 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  nights  were  hell  because  I  heard  his 
cries, 

And  saw  the  crows  a-pecking  at  his  eyes, 

The  kiotes  tearing  at  him.     O  my  God ! 

I  tried  and  tried  to  think  him  under  sod; 

But  every  time  I  slept  it  was  the  same. 

And  then  one  night — I  lay  awake — he 
came! 

I  saw  he  came — I  know  I  hadn't  slept ! 

Amid  a  light  like  rainy  dawn,  he  crept 

Out  of  the  dark  upon  his  hands  and 
knees.  320 

The  wound  he  got  that  day  among  the 
Rees 

Was  like  red  fire.    A  snarl  of  bloody  hair 

Hung  round  the  eyes  that  had  a  pleading 
stare, 

And  down  the  ruined  face  and  gory  beard 

Big  tear-drops  rolled.  He  went  as  he  ap- 
peared. 

Trailing  a  fog  of  light  that  died  away. 

And  I  grew  old  before  I  saw  the  day. 

0  Father,  I  had  paid  too  much  for  breath ! 
The  Devil  traffics  in  the  fear  of  death. 
And  may  God  pity  anyone  who  buys      330 
What  I  have  bought  with  treachery  and 

lies — 
This  rat-like   gnawing   in   my  breast! — I 
knew 

1  couldn't  rest  until  I  buried  Hugh; 
And  so  I  told  the  Major  I  would  go 
To  Atkinson  with  letters,  ere  the  snow 
Had   choked   the   trails.     Jules   wouldn't 

come  along; 
He  didn't  seem  to  realize  the  wrong; 
He  called  me  foolish,  couldn't  understand. 
I  rode  alone — not  south,  but  to  the  Grand. 
Daylong  my  horse  beat  thunder  from  the 

sod,  340 

Accusing  me;  and  all  my  prayers  to  God 
Seemed  flung  in  vain  at  bolted  gates  of 

brass. 
And  in  the  night  the  wind  among  the  grass 
Hissed  endlessly  the  story  of  my  shame. 
I  do  not  know  how  long  I  rode :  I  came 
Upon  the  Grand   at   last,  and   found  the 

place, 
And  it  was  empty !    Not  a  sign  or  trace 
Was  left  to  show  what  end  had  come  to 

Hugh. 
And  oh  that  grave!     It  gaped  upon  the 

blue, 
A  death-wound  pleading  dumbly   for  the 

slain !  350 

I  filled  it  up,  and  fled  across  the  plain. 
And  somehow  came  to  Atkinson  at  last. 
And  there  I  heard  the  living  Hugh  had 

passed 


Along  the  river  northward  in  the  fall ! 

0  Father,  he  had  found  the  strength  to 

crawl 
That  long,  heart-breaking  distance  back  to 

life, 
Though  Jules  had  taken  blanket,  steel  and 

knife. 
And  I,  his  trusted  comrade,  had  his  gun ! 
They  said  I'd  better  stay  at  Atkinson, 
Because  old  Hugh  was  surely  hunting  me, 
White-hot  to  kill.    I  did  not  want  to  flee. 
Or  hide  from  him.    I  even  wished  to  die, 
If  so  this  aching  cancer  of  a  lie  363 

Might  be  torn  out  forever.    So  I  went. 
As  eager  as  the  homesick  homeward  bent, 
In  search  of  him  and  peace.     But  I  was 

cursed. 
For  even  when  this  stolen  rifle  burst 
And  spewed  upon  me  this  eternal  night, 

1  might  not  die  as  any  other  might ; 

But  God  so  willed  that  friendly  Piegans 
came,  370 

To  spare  me  yet  a  little  unto  shame. 
O  Father,  is  there  any  hope  for  me?" 

"Great  hope  indeed,  my  son !"  so  huskily 
The  other  answers.    "I  recall  a  case 
Like  yours — no  matter  what  the  time  and 

place — 
'Twas  somewhat  like  the  story  that  you  tell ; 
Each  seeking  and  each  sought,  and  both 

in  hell; 
But,  in  the  tale  I  mind,  they  met  at  last." 

The  youth  sits  up,  white-faced  and  breath- 
ing fast : 

"They  met,  you  say?  What  happened? 
Quick!     Oh,  quick!"  380 

"The  old  man  found  the  dear  lad  blind 
and  sick. 

And  both  forgave — 'twas  easy  to  forgive — 

For  oh  we  have  so  short  a  time  to  live" — 

Whereat  the  youth:  "Who's  here?     The 

Black  Robe's  gone ! 
Whose  voice  is  this?" 

The  gray  of  winter  dawn. 
Now  creeping  round  the  door-flap,  lights 

the  place 
And  shows  thin  fingers  groping  for  a  face 
Deep-scarred  and  hoary  with  the  frost  of 

years, 
Whereover  runs  a  new  springtide  of  tears. 
"O  Jamie,  Jamie,  Jamie — I  am  Hugh ! 
There  was  no  Black  Robe  yonder — Will  I 

do?"  391 

(1915) 


PART   TWO 
LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


HEART-EXCHANGE 
SIR   PHILIP    SIDNEY 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 

his, 

By  just  exchange  one  for  another  given : 

I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss. 

There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 

his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one. 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses 

guides : 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his 

own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 

his. 

(1589) 


WHO  IS  SYLVIA 

(From  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona) 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

Who  is  Sylvia?  what  is  she? 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there.       lO 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Sylvia  is  excelling: 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon   the    dull   earth    dwelling: 
To   her   let   us   garlands   bring. 

(1598) 


O  SWEET  CONTENT 

THOMAS    DEKKER 

Art    thou  poor,  yet   hast   thou   golden 
slumbers? 

O  sweet  content! 
Art    thou    rich,    yet    is    thy   mind    per- 
plexed? 

O  punishment! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are 

vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  num- 
bers? 
O   sweet   content!     O   sweet,   O   sweet 
content! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then    hey    nonny    nonny,    hey    nonny 


nonny 


10 


227 


Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped 
spring? 

O  sweet  content! 
Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in 
thine  own  tears? 
O  punishment! 
Then   he   that  patiently   want's   burden 

bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king! 
O   sweet   content!     O   sweet,   O   sweet 
content! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face; 
Then    hey    nonny    nonny,    hey    nonny 
nonny!  20 

(1599) 


BLOW,    BLOW,    THOU    WINTER 
WIND 

(From  As  You  Like  It) 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind. 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As   man's   ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 
Because  thou  art  not  seen. 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 


228 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


Heigh    ho!    sing    heigh    ho!    unto    the 

green  holly: 
Most   friendship  is  feigning,  most  lov- 
ing mere  folly: 

Then   heigh  ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly!  lo 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits   forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp,i 
Thy  sting  is  not   so   sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh    ho!    sing    heigh    ho!    unto    the 

green  holly: 
Most   friendship  is   feigning,  most  lov- 
ing mere  folly: 

Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly!  20 

(1599) 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

(From  As  You  Like  It) 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn2  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat- 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun,  10 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

(1599) 

O  MISTRESS  MINE 

(From   Twelfth  Night) 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roam- 
ing? 

O  stay  and  hear!  your  true-love's  com- 
ing, 

1  warp.     ChanRe  (by  freezing). 

2  turn.     Shape,  fit. 


That  can  sing  both  high  and  low; 
Trip   no  further,  pretty  sweeting. 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, —  10 

Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

(1601) 

HARK,   HARK!  THE   LARK 

(From   Cymbeline) 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate 
sings, 
And  Phcebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 
With   everything  that   pretty   bin. 
My  lady  sweet,  arise: 
Arise,  arise! 

(1609) 

SONNETS 

WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 

[Shakespeare's  sonnets  were  not  arranged  or 
published  by  himself.  In  the  only  collection  we 
have  of  them,  those  here  given  are  numbered 
29,  30,  73,  74,  106,  116.  It  is  not  known  to 
what  frieiid  or  friends  they  were  addressed.] 

When,    in    disgrace   with    Fortune    and 

men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  boot- 
less cries, 
And   look  upon  myself,  and   curse   my 

fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more   rich   in 

hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends 

possessed. 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's 

scope. 
With    what    I    most    enjoy    contented 

least; 
Yet    in    these    thoughts   myself   almost 

despising, — 
Haply    I    think  on    thee:   and    then    my 

state,  ID 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


229 


From     sullen    earth,     sings    hymns    at 

heaven's  gate: 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such 

wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state 

with  kings. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent 
thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things 
past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I 
sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear 
time's  waste :i 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to 
flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  date- 
less night. 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  can- 
celled woe, 

And  moan  the  expense^  of  many  a 
vanished  sight: 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  fore- 
gone. 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  telP 
o'er  10 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned* 
moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before: 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear 

friend,  I 

All   losses  are  restored  and   sorrows 

end. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me 

behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do 

hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against 

the  cold. 
Bare    ruined    choirs,^    where    late    the 

sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such 

day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take 

away, 
Death's    second    self,    that    seals    up   all 

in   rest. 

1  Newly    mourn  the  loss  of  precious    time   long 
filled  with  sorrows. 

2  expense.     Loss. 

3  tell.     Count. 

4  fore-bemoaned.     Already  uttered. 

5  choirs.     The     portions     of    cathedrals     where 
service  was  sung. 


In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such 
fire  9 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 

As  the   death-bed   whereon   it  inust   ex- 
pire. 

Consumed     with     that     which     it     was 
nourished  by.^ 
This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy 

love  more  strong, 
To   love   that   well   which   thou   must 
leave  ere  long. 

But  be  contented:  when  that  felF  arrest 
Without  all  bail  shall  carry  me  away, 
My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest,' 
Which    for    memorial    still    with    thee 

shall   stay. 
When    thou    reviewest    this,    thou    dost 

review 
The  very  part  was^  consecrate  to  thee: 
The  earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is 

his  due; 
My  spirit  is  thine,  the  better  part  of  me: 
So  then   thou  hast   but   lost  the   dregs 

of  life, 
The    prey    of   worms,   my   body,    being 

dead;  lO 

The    coward    conquest   of   a   wretch's^o 

knife. 
Too  base  of  thee  to  be  remembered. 
The   worth    of   that   is   that   which   it 

contains. 
And  that  is  this,^^  and  this  with  thee 

remains. 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, ^^ 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rime, 
In    praise    of    ladies    dead    and    lovely 

knights; 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's 

best. 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  ex- 
pressed 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master^^  now. 
bo  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies^* 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring; 
And,  for  they  looked  but  with  divining 
eyes,  ii 

6  Choked  by  the  ashes  of  that  which  once  fed 
the  flame. 

7  fell.     Fatal. 

8  interest.     Right  (to  remembrance). 

9  part  ivas.     Part  which  was. 

10  wretch.     Perhaps  Death  with  his  scythe. 

11  that  is  this.     My  spirit  is  my  writings. 

12  wights.      Men  and  women. 

13  master.     Possess. 

T  4  Because  what  they  saw  was  only  a  dim  vision 
of  the  future. 


230 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth 
to  sing: 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  pres- 
ent days, 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack 
tongues  to  praise. 

Let   me    not   to    the    marriage    of   true 

minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when   it  alteration   finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 
O  no!  it  is  an  ever-fixed  marki 
That  looks   on   tempests   and   is   never 

shaken; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark. 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his 

height^  be  taken. 
Love's   not   Time's   fool,^   though   rosy 

lips  and  cheeks 
Within    his    bending    sickle's    compass 

come;  lo 

Love    alters   not   with   his   brief  hours 

and  weeks, 
But   bears  it  out  even  to  the   edge  of 

doom: 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

(1609) 


CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

SIR    HENRY    WOTTON 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are. 
Whose  soul  is  still*  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath;' 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 
Nor  vice;  who  never  understood  10 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state^  but  rules  of  good : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed. 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

I  mark.     Sea-mark. 

3  height.     Altitude,  calculated  by  navigators. 
3  fool.     Dupe.  4  slill.     Always. 

5  breath.     Gossip.  6  state.     Politics. 


Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend;  20 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

(1614) 


IT  IS  NOT  GROWING  LIKE  A 
TREE 

BEN   JONSON 

[This  is  a  strophe  taken  from  an  ode  written 
in  memory  of  Sir  Henry  Morison.] 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred 

year. 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

(i6l6) 


TO    CELIA 
BEN   JONSON 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes. 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee  10 

As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe. 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee! 

(1616) 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


231 


SONNET 
MICHAEL   DRAYTON 

i 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and 

part, — 
Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me ! 
And   I   am  glad,  yea,   glad   with   all   my 

heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free; 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  yov*rs. 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now   at  the  last   gasp  of  Love's   latest 

breath. 
When  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless 

lies,  10 

When   Faith   is  kneeling  by  his   bed   of 

death. 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes: 
— Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have 

given  him  over. 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him 

yet  recover! 

(1619) 

THE    CRIER 

MICHAEL   DRAYTON 

Good  folk,  for  gold  or  hire. 

But  help  me  to  a  crier; 

For  my  poor  heart  is  run  astray 

After  two  eyes  that  passed  this  way. 

O  yes,  O  yes,  O  yes, 

If  there  be  any  man 

In  town  or  country  can 

Bring  me  my  heart  again, 

I'll  please  him  for  his  pain. 
And  by  these  marks  I  will  you  show      10 
That  only  I  this  heart  do  owe  :i 

It  is  a  wounded  heart, 

Wherein  yet  sticks  the  dart; 
Every  piece  sore  hurt  throughout  it; 
"Faith"  and  "Troth"  writ  round  about  it. 
It  was  a  tame  heart  and  a  dear. 

And  never  used  to  roam ; 
But  having  got  this  haunt,^  I  fear 

'Twill  hardly  stay  at  home. 
For  God's  sake,  walking  by  the  way,      20 

If  you   my  heart  do  see, 
Either  impound  it  for  a  stray 

Or  send  it  back  to  me. 


(1619) 


I  owe.     Own. 


3  hauni.     Habit. 


VIRTUE 

GEORGE    HERBERT 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky! 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave. 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  cye.i 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet    spring,    full    of    sweet    days    and 
Toses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie,     10 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes,^ 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul,  ^ 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal,^ 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

(1633) 

LOVE 

GEORGE    HERBERT 

[This  poem  expresses  the  experience  of  a 
penitent  Christian,  whose  soul  is  conceived  of 
as  a  guest  in  the  house  of  Divine  Love.  The 
second  and  third  stanzas  arc  a  dialogue  between 
guest  and  Host.] 

Love  bade   me   welcome;   yet  my  soul 
drew   back, 

Guilty  of  dust  and  sin. 
But    quick-eyed    Love,    observing    me 
grow  slack 
From  my  first  entrance  in. 
Drew  nearer  to  me,  sweetly  questioning 
If  I  lack'd  anything. 

"A  guest,"  I  answered,  "worthy  to  be 
here:" 
Love  said,  "You  shall  be  he." 
"I,    the    unkind,    ungrateful?      Ah,    my 
dear, 

I  cannot  look  on  Thee!"  10 

Love   took   my   hand   and    smiling   did 
reply, 
"Who  made  the  eyes  but  I?" 

1  Because  blinded  by  the  very  brilliancy  of  its 

color. 

2  closes.  The  poet  plays  on  the  technical  use  of 
the  term — the  end  of  a  musical  phrase. 

3  coal.     Burning  fuel  (not  the  modem  coal). 


232 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Truth,  Lord;  but  I  have  marred  them: 
let  my  shame 

Go  where  it  doth  deserve." 

"And  know  you  not,"  says  Love,  "who 

bore   the  blame?" 

"My  dear,  then  I  will  serve." 

"You   must   sit   down,"   says   Love,   "and 

taste  my  meat." 

So  I  did  sit  and  eat. 

(1633) 


THE   PULLEY 
GEORGE   HERBERT 

When  God  at  first  made  Man, 
Having  a  glass  of  Blessings   standing 
by, 
"Let  us,"  said  he,  "pour  on  him  all 
we  can: 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed 
lie. 
Contract  into  a  span." 


So  Strength  first  made  a  way; 
Then    Beauty    flowed;    then    Wisdom, 
Honor,  Pleasure. 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made 
a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  his  treas- 
ure, 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay.  10 


"For  if  I  should,"  said  he, 
"Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of 
me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Na- 
ture; 
So  both  should  losers  be. 


"Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restless- 
ness; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,   that  at 
least. 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him  to  my  breast."  20 

(1633) 


L'ALLEGRO 

JOHN    MILTON 

[The  title  means  "The  Cheerful  Man,"  as 
opposed  to  the  subject  of  the  companion  poem, 
"II  Penseroso,"  "The  Sober  (Reflective)  Man." 
From  line  11  to  the  end  the  theme  may  be  said 
to  be  Mirth,  personified  in  Euphrosyne.] 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of    Cerberus^    and    blackest    midnight 

born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and 

sights  unholy! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell 
Where    brooding    Darkness    spreads 
his  jealous  wings 
And  the  night  raven  sings; 

There,  under  ebon   shades  and  low- 
browed rocks 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks,  9 

In  dark   Cimmerian  desert^  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  yclept^  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore: 
Or  whether   (as  some  sager*  sing) 
The     frolic     wind     that    breathes     the 

spring. 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora^  playing 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There,  on  beds  of  violets  blve, 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew. 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  -daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 
Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks*^  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks'^  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's^  cheek. 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek;       30 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 

1  Cerberus.     The  monster-guard  of  the  gates  of 
the  Stygian  under- v/orld  (Hades). 

2  Cimmerian  desert.     Near  Hades,  supposed  to 
be  always  hidden  in  mist. 

3  yclept.     Called. 

4  sager.     More  wisely. 

5  Zephyr  with  Aurora.     The  West  Wind  with  the 
Dawn. 

6  Quips   and   Cranks.     Fanciful,   witty  sayings. 

7  Becks.     Salutations  (with  hand  or  head). 

8  Hebe.     Goddess  of  youth. j 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


233 


And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet   Liberty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her  and  live  with  thee. 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free;  40 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow. 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 
Through  the  sweet-brier  or  the  vine. 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine, ^ 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din. 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin,       50 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before; 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill. 
Through  the  high   wood  echoing  shrill. 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state  60 
Robed    in    flames    and   amber    light. 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight.^ 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale^ 
Under   the   hawthorn   in   the   dale. 
Straight   mine   eye   hath   caught   new 
pleasures 
Whilst    the    landscape    round    it    meas- 
ures: 70 
Russet   lawns,  and   fallows*  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied,^ 
Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees. 
Where  perhaps   some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure''  of  neighboring  eyes.    80 
Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt   two  aged  oaks. 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis^  met 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 

1  eglantine.     Honeysuckle. 

2  dight.     Decked, 

3  Ulls    his    tale.      Counts    his    full    number  (of 
sheep). 

4  fallows.     Untilled  places. 

5  pied.     Spotted. 

6  cynosure.     Center  of  regard. 

7  Corydon  and  Thyrsis.     Typical  names  of  pas- 
toral characters;  so  also  Phyllis  and  Thestylis. 


Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes. 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phyllis  dresses; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead.   90 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight. 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund   rebecks^   sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid 

Dancing  in   the   chequered    shade. 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday. 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail: 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale,        100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat: 

How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat; 

She^  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said; 

And  he,  by  friar's  lantern^o  led. 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblini^  sweat 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 

When,    in    one    night,    ere    glimpse    of 

morn. 
His    shadowy    flail    hath    threshed    the 

corn 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end; 
Then   lies   him   down   the   lubber   fiend, 
And,    stretched    out    all    the    chimney's 

length,  III 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 
And,  crop-full,  out  of  doors  he  flings. 
Ere   the  first  cock  his  matin   rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men. 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons 

bold. 
In    weedsi2    of    peace    high    triumphs 

hold  120 

W^ith  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence, ^^  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let   Hymen^*  oft  appear 
In  saflfron   robe,  with  taper  clear. 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry. 
With  mask^s  and  antique  pageantry; 

8  rebecks.     Fiddles. 

9  She.  The  girl  who  tells  the  fairy  stories;  the 
following  "he"  is  another  narrator. 

10  friar's    lantern.     The    will-o'-the-wisp    light. 

11  goblin.  Robin  Goodfellow,  who  it  was  said 
would  work  for  any  who  would  set  for  him  a  bowl 
of  cream. 

12  weeds.     Garments. 

13  influence.  Like  that  supposed  to  proceed 
from  the  stars.  14  Hymen.     God  of  marriage. 

I  s    mask.     A  musical  pageant-play. 


234 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.  130 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock^  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild; 
And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs^ 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout^ 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning,* 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  run- 
ning, 142 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 
That    Orpheus'    self    may    heave^    his 

head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice.^  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

(1634) 


IL  PENSEROSO 

JOHN    MILTON 

[The  subject  of  this  poem  is  the  pleasures  of 
Melancholy,  in  contrast  with  those  of  Mirth. 
By  Melancholy,  however,  we  must  understand  a 
milder,  less  darkened  mood  than  that  which  the 
word  now  expresses;  Pensiveness  would  be  rather 
closer  to  the  Miltonic  notion.  In  like  manner, 
the  word  "sad"  in  Milton's  time  (as  in  lines  43 
and  103)   meant  only  serious.^ 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 
The    brood    of    Folly    without    father 
bred! 
How  little  you  bested,f 
Or   fill   the   fixed   mind   with   all   your 
toys! 

1  sock.  The  Greek  shoe  which  was  symbol  of 
comedy. 

2  Lydian  airs.  A  form  of  Greek  music,  soft 
and  effeminate. 

3  bout.     Turn. 

4  The  music  is  light  and  free,  but  produced  by 
care  (heed)  and  skill. 

5  heave.     Raise. 

6  Orpheus  had  won  his  way  into  Hades  to 
rescue  his  wife  Eurydice,  through  the  power  of  his 
music,  but  lost  her  on  the  way  out. 

7  bested.     Benefit. 


Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And   fancies   fond^   with  gaudy  shapes 
possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun- 
beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners^  of  Morpheus' 
train.  lo 

But  hail,  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight; 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's^®  sister  might  beseem. 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen^^  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  20 

The    sea-nymphs,   and    their   powers    of- 
fended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher   far   descended : 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta,^^  iQ^g  of  yore. 
To  solitary  Saturn^^  bore; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain) 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's   inmost  grove. 
Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.    30 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain^* 
Flowing  with  majestic  train. 
And  sable  stolei^  of  cypress-lawn^^ 
Over  thy  decent^^  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state. 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes :        40 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till, 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast. 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses,  in  a  ring. 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing. 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure,        49 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure; 

8  fond.     Foolish. 

9  pensioners.     Followers.     Morpheus  was  god  of 
dreams. 

10  Memnon.     An  ancient  king  of  Ethiopia. 

11  Ethiop  queen.     Cassiopeia. 

12  Vesta.     Goddess  of  the  hearth. 

13  Saturn.     A  god   who    reigned    in    Mt.     laa, 
Crete,  but  was  dispossessed  by  his  son  Jove. 

14  grain.     Dye.  IS  stole.     Scarf. 

16  cypress-lawn.     A  thin  crape. 

17  decent.     Modest. 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


235 


But,  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 
Him  that  yon^  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
The  Cherub  Contemplation  ;2 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist^  along, 
'Less  Philomel*  will  deign  a  song 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight. 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia^   checks  her   dragon  yoke 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 

Sweet   bird,    that   shunn'st   the    noise   of 

folly, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy ! 
Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song; 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon,^ 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way. 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed,        71 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit. 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,        80 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harmj 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour. 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear,' 
With     thrice     great     Hermes,^     or     un- 

sphereio 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook  91 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook. 
And  of^i  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground, 

X  yon.     Yonder. 

3  Contemplation.      Pronounce    "  Contempla-she- 
on." 

3  hist.     Lead  8oftly. 

4  Philomel.     The  nightingale. 

5  Cynthia.     The  moon,  .conceived  as  drivinR  a 
team  of  dragons. 

6  noon.     Zenith. 

7  The  bellman,  or  night  watchman,  often  ended 
his  call  of  the  hours  with  a  benediction. 

8  Bear.     The  constellation  of    the    Great    Dip- 
per, which  remains  in  the  sky  all  night. 

9  thrice  great  Hermes.     Hermes  Trismegistus,  a 
mythical  writer  of  books  on  magic  arts. 

10  unsphere.     Draw  from  his  celestial  sphere. 

11  of.     To  tell  of. 


Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent^^ 
With  planet  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy, 
In  sceptred  pall,  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line,!^ 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  100 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined^*  stage. 

But,  O  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus^^  from  his  bower; 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string. 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek,^^ 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seek; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told" 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  no 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 
That  owned  the  virtuous^^  ring  and  glass. 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride; 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  tourneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of   forests,   and   enchantments   drear. 
Where    more    is    meant    than    meets    the 

ear.i9  120 

Thus,    Night,    oft    see    me    in    thy    pale 

career. 
Till  civil-suited^o  Morn  appear. 
Not  tricked   and   frounced^i  as   she   was 

wont 
With  the  Attic  boy22  to  hunt, 
But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud. 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 
With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling     131 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan^s  loves. 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak. 
Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 

12  consent.     Agreement. 

13  Stories  told   in   tragedies  by  iEschylus  and 
Sophocles. 

14  buskined.     Tragic  (the  buskin  being  the  sym- 
bol of  tragedy  as  the  sock  was  of  comedy), 

15  MusiBus.     A  Greek  poet. 

16  See  note  on  L'Allesro,  line  150. 

17  The    reference    is    to     Chaucer's    unfinished 
"Squire's  Tale." 

18  virtuous.     Powerful  (magically). 

19  This  may  refer  to  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene. 

20  civil-suited.     Plainly  dressed  (like  a  civilian). 

21  frounced.     Curled. 

22  Atlic  boy.     Cephalus.Ioved  by  Aurora,  goddess 
of  morning. 

33  Sylvan.     A  forest  god. 


236 


POEMS    OF   THE    ENGLISH    RACE 


Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,       140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 

While  the  bee,  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring. 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep ; 

And  let  some  strange   mysterious   dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream^ 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid.  150 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good. 

Or  th'  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale,^ 
And  love  the  high  embowed^  roof, 
With  antique  pillars  massy  proof,* 
And  storied   windows   richly   dight,'' 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  choir  below. 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 
As   may   with    sweetness,    through    mine 

ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 
And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell^      170 
Of  every  star  that  Heaven  doth  show, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew. 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 
These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give. 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

(1634) 

DEATH 

JOHN    DONNE 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have 
called  thee 

Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so; 

For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost 
overthrow 

Die  not,  poor  Death :  nor  yet  canst  thou 
kill  me. 

From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  pic- 
ture be, 

I  Come  softly  before  my  eyes,  trembling  in  a 
stream  of  visions  at  the  movement  of  Sleep's  wings, 
a  pale.     Precincts.  3  embowed.  Vaulted. 

4  massy  proof.     Massively  strong. 

5  dighl.     Decked.         6  spell.     Study. 


Much    pleasure,    then    from    thee    much 

more  must  flow ; 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do 

go- 
Rest  of  their  bones,  and  souls'  delivery ! 
Thou'rt  slave  to  Fate,  chance,  kings,  and 

desperate  men. 
And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness 

dwell ;  10 

And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep 

as  well, 
And  better  than  thy  stroke.    Why  swell'st 

thou  then? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally. 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more.     Death, 

thou  shalt  die! 


(1635) 


LYCIDAS 

JOHN    MILTON 


[This  is  a  formal  elegy  in  the  conventional 
pastoral  form,  supposed  to  be  sung  by  a  shepherd 
in  honor  of  a  dead  companion  (notice  that  the 
singer  is  described  in  the  concluding  lines,  186- 
193),  but  really  uttering  the  thoughts  of  Milton 
concerning  his  friend,  Edward  King,  \yho  was 
drowned  while  crossing  the  Irish  Sea  in  1637. 
The  framework  of  the  poem,  then,  is  in  the  classi- 
cal tradition:  the  laurels,  myrtles,  and  ivy  of 
the  opening  lines  are  symbols  of  the  poetic  art; 
there  is  a  formal  address  to  the  Muses  (line  15), 
there  are  references  to  the  pastoral  poet  Theocri- 
tus of  Sicily,  who  had  sung  of  Arethusa  and 
Alpbeus  (lines  85,  132-33),  and  to  Virgil,  who 
had  celebrated  the  river  Mincius  (86);  the  art 
of  poetry  is  symbolized  as  that  of  shepherds  (65), 
and  the  life  of  ease  as  one  of  sporting  with 
shepherdesses  (67-69).  On  the  other  hand,  Mil- 
ton blends  with  this  classical  material  allusions 
to  English  places,  persons,  and  conditions.  The 
island  of  Mona  and  the  River  Dee  (54-55)  stand 
for  the  coast  of  Wales,  near  which  King  was 
drowned;  the  "hill"  ana  "flock"  of  23-24  stand 
for  Cambridge  University,  where  the  poet  and 
his  friend  were  students  together,  and  Camus 
(103)  is  the  River  Cam  at  Cambridge;  Damoetas 
(36)  is  supposed  to  represent  some  Cambridge 
friend  or  tutor.  Still  more  striking  is  the  Mil- 
tonic  blending  of  Christian  with  classical  the- 
ology; thus  in  lines  81-84  he  sets  forth  his  per- 
sonal faith  in  the  divine  Judge  of  his  work  as 
poet,  and  in  172-181  describes  the  Christian 
heaven,  with  the  "nuptial  song"  of  the  Marriage 
of  the  Lamb.  The  fact  that  King  was  to  enter 
the  Church  also  gave  him  opportunity  to  intro- 
duce the  long  passage  on  the  state  of  the  times 
(114-131),  and,  in  his  own  words,  to  foretell 
"the  ruin  of  our  corrupted  clergy,  then  in  their 
height,"  under  the  symbol  of  false  shepherds 
whose  poetry  (123-4)  is  as  bad  as  their  doctrines 
(125-7).  The  wolf  of  128  is  supposed  to  be  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  and  the  two-handed 
weapon  of  130  the  new  Reformation  of  Milton's 
time  (perhaps  called  two-handed  because  of  the 
two  Houses  of  Parliament).] 

Yet  once  more,   O   ye  laurels,  and  once 

more. 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


237 


I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and 

crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing 

year. 
Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young    Lycidas,    and    hath    not    left    his 

peer. 
Who   would    not    sing    for    Lycidas?    he 

knew!  10 

Himself    to    sing,    and    build    the    lofty 

rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,    and    welter^    to    the    parching 

wind, 
Without    the    meed    of    some    melodious 

tear. 
Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth 

spring; 
Begin,   and    somewhat   loudly   sweep   the 

string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse : 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With    lucky    words    favor    my    destined 

urn,  20 

And  as  he  passes  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 
For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same 

hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade, 

and  rill; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns^  ap- 
peared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly*  winds  her  sultry 

horn, 
Battenings  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews 

of  night, 
Oft   till   the   star  that   rose   at  evening, 

bright,  30 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his 

westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile    the    rural    ditties    were    not 

mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute ; 
Rough    Satyrs    danced,   and    Fauns    with 

cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent 

long; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

I  knew.     Knew  how.  2  welter.     Be  tossed. 

3  lawns.     Pastures. 

4  gray-fly.     Trumpet-fly,     heard     especially    at 
cummer  noon.  S  battening.     Feeding. 


But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art 
gone. 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  re- 
turn! 

Thee,    Shepherd,    thee    the    woods    and 
desert  caves, 

With  wild  thyme  and   the  gadding  vine 
o'ergrown,  40 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 

The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 

Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 

Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft 
lays. 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 

Or   taint-worm    to    the    weanling^    herds 
that  graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  ward- 
robe wear. 

When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where    were    ye.    Nymphs,    when    the 

remorseless  deep  50 

Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Ly- 
cidas? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids, 
lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard 
stream. 

Ay  me,  I  fondly  dream ! 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that 
have  done? 

What  could  the  Muse^  herself  that  Or- 
pheus bore, 

The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 

Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,      60 

When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous 
roar 

His  gory  visage  dowji  the  stream  was  sent, 

Down  the  Swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian 
shore? 
Alas !  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 

To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's 
trade. 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 

Fame   is   the   spur   that   the   clear    spirit 
doth  raise  70 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days; 

But  the  fair  guerdon^  when  we  hope  to 
find, 

6  weanling.     Newly  weaned. 

7  Calliope  was  mother  of  Orpheus.  He  was 
slain  by  the  infuriated  Thracian  Bacchantes,  and  his 
head  thrown  into  the  River  Hebrus. 

8  guerdon.     Reward. 


238 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaz^ 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred 

shears,! 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.    "But  not  the 

praise," 
Phoebus^  replied,  and  touched   my  trem- 
bling ears : 
"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal 

soil. 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil^ 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor 

lies ;  80 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure 

eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much   fame  in  heaven  expect  thy 

meed." 

0  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored 
flood. 

Smooth-sliding    Mincius,    crowned    with 
vocal   reeds. 

That    strain    I    heard    was    of    a    higher 
mood : 

But  now  my  oat*  proceeds, 

And  listens  to  the  herald^  of  the  sea. 

That  came  in  Neptune's  plea«  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon 
winds, 

What    hard    mishap    hath    doomed    this 
gentle  swain? 

And    questioned    every    gust    of    rugged 
wings 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  prom- 
ontory : 

They  knew  not  of  his  story; 

And     sage     Hippotades'^     their     answer 
brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon 
strayed ; 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek     Panope*     with     all     her     sisters 
played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Built    in    the    eclipse,    and    rigged    with 
curses    dark, 

That   sunk   so   low   that   sacred   head   of 
thine. 
Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  foot- 
ing slow, 

His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge,* 

1  Atropos,  the  third  of  the  Fates. 

2  Phabus.     Apollo,  god  of  poets. 

3  foil.     Gold-leaf. 

4  oat.     Flute  (cf.  line  33).         S  herald.     Triton. 
o  To  inc]uire  in  Neptune's  name. 

7  Hippotades.     /Eolus,  god  of  winds. 

8  Panope.     A  sea-ny  mph.      9  sedge.     Of  reeds. 


Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the 

edge 
Like  to   that  sanguine  flower^o  inscribed 

with  woe. 
"Ah !    who    hath    reft,"    quoth    he,    "my 

dearest  pledge  ?"!i 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go. 
The  piIot!2  of  the  Galilean  lake;  109 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 
He  shook  his   mitred^^   locks,   and   stern 

bespake : 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee, 

young  swain. 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep  and  intrude  and  climb  into  the  fold ! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than   how   to   scramble  at   the   shearers' 

feast. 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind    mouths !    that    scarce    themselves 

know  how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else 

the  least  120 

That   to  the    faithful   herdman's   art   be- 
longs ! 
What  recksi*  it  them?    What  need  they? 

They  are  sped;i5 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy 

songs 
Grate     on     their     scranneU^     pipes     of 

wretched  straw; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not 

fed, 
But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist 

they  draw. 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread; 
Besides  what  the  grim   wolf  with  privy 

paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 
But  that  two-handed  engine^^  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no 

more."  131 

Return,    Alpheus;    the   dread   voice   is 

past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return,  Sicilian 

Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither 

cast 

10  The  hyacinth,  whose  petals  were  said  by  the 
Greeks  to  be  lettered  "Ai,  ai"  (alasl),  in  memory 
of  the  youth  from  whose  blood  it  had  sprung. 

11  pledge.     Child. 

12  St.  Peter,  reputed  to  carry  the  keys  of  heaven 
(see  Matthew  ib-.K)). 

13  mitred.     Wearing  a  bishop's  hcad-dress. 

14  recks  it.     Does  it  concern. 

15  are  sped.      Prosper. 

16  scrannel.     Harsh. 

17  engine.     Instrument. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


239 


Their  bells   and   flowrets   of   a  thousand 

hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers 

use^ 
Of  shades  and  wanton  winds  and  gushing 

brooks, 
On    whose    fresh    lap    the    swart    star^ 

sparely^  looks, 
Throw   hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled 

eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed 

showers,  140 

And  purple   all   the   ground  with   vernal 

flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe*  primrose  that  forsaken 

dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white   pink,   and  the  pansy    freaked 

with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 
The     musk-rose,     and     the     well-attired 

woodbine. 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive 

head. 
And    every    flower    that   sad    embroidery 

wears ; 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To    strew    the    laureate    hearse^     where 

Lycid  lies.  151 

For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 
Let  our   frail  thoughts   dally   with    false 

surmise, 
Ay  me !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sound- 
ing seas 
Wash   far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are 

hurled ; 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming 

tide 
Visit'st    the    bottom    of    the    monstrous^ 

world; 
Or    whether    thou,    to    our    moist    vows'' 

denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus^  old, 
Where  the   great   vision   of   the  guarded 

mount  161 

I  use.     Are  found. 

a  swart  star.     Dog-star,  symbolic  of  heat. 

3  sparely.     Sparingly. 

4  rathe.     Early. 

5  laureate  hearse.     Laureled  tomb. 

6  monstrous.     Full  of  monsters. 

7  moist  vows.     Tearful  prayers. 

8  Fable  of  Bellerus.  Fabled  Bellerus,  a  name 
made  from  Bellerium,  the  Latin  name  for  the  point 
of  Cornwall  called  Land's  End.  Here  is  the  mount 
(line  161)  called  St.  Michael,  said  to  be  guarded  by 
the  archangel. 


Looks    toward    Namancos    and    Bayona's 

hold.9 
Look   homeward.   Angel,    now,    and    melt 

with  ruth ; 
And    O    ye    dolphins,    waft    the    hapless 

youth.io 
Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep 

no  more, 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead. 
Sunk   though   he   be   beneath   the   watery 

floor; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks^i    his   beams,    and   with    new- 
spangled  ore  170 
Flames  in  the   forehead  of  the  morning 

sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through    the    dear    might    of    Him    that 

walked  the  waves. 
Where,   other   groves   and  other   streams 

along. 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And     hears     the     unexpressive^^    nuptial 

song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and 

love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies, 
That    sing,    and    singing    in    their    glory 

move,  180 

And   wipe   the   tears   for   ever   from   his 

eyes. 
Now,    Lycidas,    the    shepherds    weep    no 

more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius^^  of  the 

shore. 
In    thy    large   recompense,   and    shalt    be 

good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth^*  swain  to  the 
oaks  and  rills. 

While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  san- 
dals gray ; 

He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various 
quills. 

With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric^' 
lay: 

And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all 
the  hills,  190 

9  hold.    Castle.    Namancos  and  Bayona  were  in 
Spain. 

10  Dolphins  had  carried  Arion  to  shore  when  he 
was  thrown  overboard. 

11  tricks.     Arranges  (like  decorations). 
IS  unexpressive.     Inexpressible. 

13  Genius.     Good  spirit. 

14  uncouth.     Unknown. 

15  Doric.     Pastoral. 


240 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  now  was   dropped  into  the  western 

bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle 

blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures 

new. 

(1638) 


SONG 

SIR   JOHN    SUCKLING 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her. 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute?  10 

Quit,    quit    for    shame!      This    will    not 
move; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her  I 

(1638) 


ON  HIS  BEING  ARRIVED  TO  THE 
AGE  OF  TWENTY-THREE 

JOHN    MILTON 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of 
youth. 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three  and  twenti- 
eth year! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career. 

But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom 
shew'th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance^  might  deceive  the 
truth. 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near; 

And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  ap- 
pear, 

That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  en- 
du'th.2  8 

1  semblance.     Youthful  appearance. 

2  endu'th,     Eadoweth. 


Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even^ 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 
Toward   which   Time  leads  me,   and  the 

will  of  Heaven : 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  see  it  co, 
As  ever  in   my  great   Taskmaster's   eye. 

(1645) 


THE  HOLY  NATIVITY 

A  Hymn  Sung  as  by  the  Shepherds 

RICHARD   CRASHAW 

[The  poem  as  it  stands  here  is  only  a  portion 
of  a  much  longer  composition.  In  part  it  was 
written  to  represent  a  dialogue  between  two  of 
the  shepherds:  "Tityrus"  utters  stanzas  1  and  4, 
"Thyrsis"  stanzas  2  and  5,  while  both  sing  the 
third.] 

Gloomy  night  embraced  the  place 

Where  the  noble  Infant  lay. 
The  Babe  looked  up  and  showed  his  face ; 

In  spite  of  darkness,  it  was  day. 
It  was  thy  day,  Sweet!  and  did  rise. 
Not  from  the  East,  but  from  thine  eyes. 

Winter  chid  aloud,  and  sent 

The  angry  North  to  wage  his  wars. 
The  North  forgot  his  fierce  intent. 

And  left  perfumes  instead  of  scars.  lo 
By  those  sweet  eyes'  persuasive  powers. 
Where    he    meant     frost,    he    scattered 
flowers. 


We  saw  thee  in  thy  balmy  nest, 
Young  dawn  of  our  eternal  day! 

We    saw    thine    eyes    break    from    their 
East, 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 

We  saw  thee,  and  we  blessed  the  sight; 

We  saw  thee  by  thine  own  sweet  light. 

Poor  world,  said  I,  what  wilt  thou  do 
To  entertain  this  starry  Stranger?     20 

Is  this  the  best  thou  canst  bestow, — 
A  cold  and  not  too  cleanly  manger? 

Contend,  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth, 

To  fit  a  bed  for  this  huge  birth. 
3  be  .  ,  .  even.     Correspond. 


LYRICAL  AND  REFLECTIVE  POEMS 


241 


Proud  world,  said  I,  cease  your  contest, 
And  let  the  mighty  Babe  alone. 

The  phoenix  builds  the  phoenix'  nest.^ 
Love's  architecture  is  his  own. 

The    Babe    whose    birth    embraves    this 
morn 

Made  his  own  bed  ere  He  was  born.    30 

(1646) 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

ROBERT    HERRICK 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame!  the  blooming 

morn 
Upon    her   wings   presents    the   god   un- 
shorn.2 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted   colors   through    the   air; 
Get   up,   sweet   slug-a-bed,   and   see 
Thj  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bowed  toward 

the  east 
Above  an  hour  since :  yet  you  not  dressed ; 
Nay !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said  10 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in 
May.3 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh 
and  green, 
And  sweet  as  Flora.    Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair: 
Fear  not;  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you :  20 

Besides,    the    childhood   of    the   day    has 

kept. 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  un- 
wept; 
Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night : 
And  Titan*  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till   you   come    forth.     Wash,   dress,    be 

brief  in  praying: 
Few  beads^  are  best  when  once  we  go 
a-Maying. 

I  The  phoenix  was  a  mythical  bird  said  to  live 
for  centuries;  at  length  it  would  build  a  nest,  set 
fire  to  it,  and  find  a  new  birth  after  being  consumed 
in  the  flames. 

3  god  unshorn.     The  sun  with  all  his  beams. 

3  May.     May-blossoms  (especially  hawthorn). 

4  Titan.     The  sun-god. 

5  beads.     Prayers. 


Come,   my  Corinna,  come;   and,  coming, 

mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street 
a  park  30 

Made  green  and  trimmed   with   trees; 

see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch :  each  porch,  each  door  ere 

this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is. 
Made   up   of   white-thorn,    neatly    inter- 
wove; 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of 
love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields  and  we  not  see't? 
Come,  we'll  abroad ;  and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May  40 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by 

staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 


There's   not   a  budding  boy   or  girl   this 

day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  thTs,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and 

cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream : 
And   some   have   wept,   and   wooed,    and 

plighted  troth. 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast 
off  sloth :  50 

Many  a  green-gown^  has  been  given; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This   night,   and  locks  picked,  yet   we're 
not  a-Maying. 


Come,   let  us   go   while   we   are   in   our 

prime; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time ! 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty.  60 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun; 
And,  as  a  vapor  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again. 
So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 
A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 
All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
6  green-gown.     Tumble  on  the  grass. 


242 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but 

decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-May- 

ing.  70 

(1648) 

A   THANKSGIVING   TO    GOD    FOR 
HIS  HOUSE 

ROBERT    HERRICK 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 

Wherein  to  dwell, 
A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 

Is  weatherproof. 
Under  the  spars^  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft  and  dry; 
Where  thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 

Hast  set  a  guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me  while  I  sleep.  10 

Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate, 

Both  void  of  state; 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  th'  poor. 
Who  thither  come  and  freely  get 

Good  words  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlor,  so  my  hall 

And  kitchen's  small; 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  little  bin,  20 

Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchipped,  unflead;^ 
Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  briar 

Make  me  a  fire. 
Close  by  whose  living  coal  I  sit, 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,  I  confess  too,  when  I  dine, 

The  pulse  is  thine. 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  thee;  3° 

The  worts,s  the  purslane,  and  the  mess 

Of  watercress. 
Which  of  thy  kindness  thou  hast  sent; 

And  my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet. 

To  be  more  sweet. 
'Tis    thou    that    crown'st    my    glittering 
hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  wassail*  bowls  to  drink. 

Spiced  to  the  brink.  40 

Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soils  my  land, 

I  spars.     Beams. 

a  unflead.     Unflayed  (by  mice). 

3  worts.     Roots. 

4  wassail.     Festal. 


And  giv'st  me,  for  my  bushel  sown, 

Twice  ten  for  one; 
Thou  mak'st  my  teeming  hen  to  lay 

Her  egg  each  day; 
Besides  my  healthful  ewes  to  bear 

Me  twins  each  year; 
The  while  the  conduits  of  my  kine 

Run  cream,  for  wine.  So 

All  these,  and  better,  thou  dost  send 

Me,  to  this  end. 
That  I  should  render,  for  my  part, 

A  thankful  heart. 
Which,  fired  with  incense,  I  resign, 

As  wholly  thine; 
But  the  acceptance — that  must  be. 

My  Christ,  by  Thee. 

(1648) 


ON  JULIA'S   CLOTHES 

ROBERT    HERRICK 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 

Then,  then  (methinks)  how  sweetly  flows 

That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free; 
O  how  that  glittering  taketh  me ! 

(1648) 

TO   DAFFODILS 
ROBERT    HERRICK 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon: 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  evensong; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along.  10 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We   have   as    short   a    spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 

As  you,  or  anything. 
We  die. 

As  your  hours   do,  and  dry 
Away 

Like  to  the  Summer's  rain ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again.  20 

(1648) 


LYRICAL  AND  REFLECTIVE  POEMS 


243 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

Sung  to  the  King  in  the  Presence  at 
Whitehall 

ROBERT    HERRICK 

What  sweeter  music  can  we  bring 
Than  a  carol,  for  to  sing 
The  birth  of  this  our  heavenly  King? 
Awake  the  voice  !     Awake  the  string ! 
Heart,  ear,  and  eye,  and  every  thing, 
Awake!  the  while  the  active  finger 
Runs  division^  with  the  singer. 


Dark  and  dull  night,  fly  hence  away, 

And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 

That  ^aes  December  turned  to  May.      lo 


If  we  may  ask  the  reason,  say 

The  why  and  wherefore  all  things  here 

Seem  like  the  spring-time  of  the  year? 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morn 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn, 
Or  smell  like  to  a  mead  new-shorn, 
Thus  on  the  sudden? 

Come  and  see 
The  cause  why  things  thus   fragrant  be. 
'Tis  He  is  born,  whose  quickening  birth 
Gives  life  and  lustre,  public  mirth,        20 
To  heaven  and  the  under  earth. 

We  see  Him  come,  and  know  Him  ours. 
Who,  with  his  sunshine  and  his  showers. 
Turns  all  the  patient  ground  to  flowers. 

The  Darling  of  the  world  is  come, 
And  fit  it  is  we  find  a  room 
To  welcome  Him. 

The  nobler  part 
Of  all  the  house  here  is  the  heart, 
Which  we  will  give  Him,  and  bequeath 
This  holly  and  this  ivy  wreath,  30 

To  do  Him  honor,  who's  our  King, 
And  Lord  of  all  this  reveling. 

(1648) 

1  division.     A  rapid  imusjcal  passage  sung  (us.i- 
ally)  to  a  single  syllable. 


TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE 
WARS 

RICHARD    LOVELACE 

Tell  me  not.  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first   foe  in  the   field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore;  10 

I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honor  more. 

(1649) 


TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON 

RICHARD    LOVELACE 

(Lovelace  was  twice  a  prisoner  as  the  result  of 
his  devotion  to  King  Charles  I.] 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates. 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allayingi  Thames,  lO 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When   (like  committed^  linnets)   I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  King;  20 

When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged'  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

1  allaying.     Diluting. 

2  committed.     Imprisoned. 

3  Enlarged,     Free. 


244 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free,  30 

Angels  alone,  that  soar  above. 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

(1649) 


SONG 

JAMES    SHIRLEY 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill : 

But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield ; 

They  tame  but  one  another  still :        12 

Early  or  late 

They  stoop  to   fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 

When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds : 

Your  heads  must  come  21 

To  the  cold  tomb ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

(i6S9) 


ON   HIS   BLINDNESS 

JOHN    MILTON 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and 

wide. 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 

more  bent 
To     serve     therewith     my     Maker,     and 

present 


My  true  account,  lest  He  returning 
chide, — 

"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  de- 
nied?" 

I   fondly^  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies :  "God  doth 
not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  His  own  gifts :  who 
best  10 

Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best : 
His  state 

Is  kingly;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed, 

And  post^  o'er  land  and  ocean  without 
rest : — 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

(1673) 


SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687 

JOHN    DRYDEN 

[St.  Cecilia  was  the  patron  saint  of  music,  par- 
ticularly organ  music,  and  a  musical  society  in 
London  used  to  celebrate  her  feast  day,  Novem- 
ber 22,  with  a  choral  concert.  Dryden  >yrote 
this  and  the  following  ode  for  these  celebrations; 
that  for  1687  was  set  to  music  by_  the  Italian 
composer  Draghi.  The  poet  bases  his  conception 
on  an  old  philosophic  theory  that  the  atoms  of 
the  universe  were  first  set  in  order  by  means  of 
musical  harmony,  and  continued  to  form  "the 
music  of  the  spheres."  At  the  close  he  unites 
with  this  idea  the  Christian  theme  of  the  Dayof 
Tudgment,  imagining  that  the  sound  of  the  divirie 
Trumpet  will  be  the  concluding  note  of  this 
music  of  creation.  The  notion  that  an  angel 
appeared  to  Cecilia  at  her  music  was  a  part  of 
the  legend   of  that   saint.] 

From  harmony,   from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  began : 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head. 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 
"Arise,  ye  more  than  dead !" 

Then  cold  and  hot  and  moist  and  dry^ 

In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 

And  Music's  power  obey.  10 

From   harmony,   from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  began: 
From  harmony  to  harmony 

Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it 
ran, 

The  diapason*  closing  full  in  Man. 

1  fondly.     Foolishly. 

2  post.     Hasten. 

3  The  four  kinds  of  natural  substances,  according 
to  ancient  science. 

4  diapason.     The  compass  of  an  instrument. 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


245 


What   passion   cannot    Music   raise    and 
quell ! 
When  Jubali  struck  the  chorded  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound.  20 

Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could 
not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What    passion    cannot    Music    raise    and 
quell ! 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum  30 

Cries  "Hark !  the  foes  come ; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat!" 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 

Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  war- 
bling lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion 

For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 

But  Oh !  what  art  can  teach. 
What  human  voice  can  reach. 

The  sacred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place 

Sequacious^  of  the  lyre  50 

But   bright   Cecilia   raised   the   wonder 

higher : 
When  to  her  Organ  vocal  breath  was 
given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared, 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 
The  spheres  began  to  move. 

And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 
To  all  the  blest  above ; 

I  Jubal.     See  Genesis  iv,  21:    "The  father  of  all 
such  as  handle  the  harp  or  the  organ." 
a  sequacious  of.     Following. 


So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour,  60 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

(1693) 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST 

OR,    THE    POWER    OF    MUSIC 

JOHN    DRYDEN 

[The  St.  Cecilia's  Day  ode  for  1697.  Dryden 
found  among  the  _  ancient  stories  of  Alexander 
the  Great  a  mention  of  Timotheus,  a  musician 
who  had_  deeply  stirred  the  king  when  playing 
before  him.  _  He  develops  this  legend  in  strophes 
2-6,  imagining  the  succession  of  Timotheus's 
themes  and  their  effect  on  the  royal  fistener;  in 
the  last  stanza  the  invention  of  the  organ  by  St. 
Cecilia  is  regarded  as  a  still  greater  triumph,  in 
view  of  the  legend  already  referred  to  in  the 
Ode  for   1687   (line  53).] 


'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around. 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles 
bound 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned)  ; 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride       10 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride : — 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair! 


Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire  20 

The  song  began  from^  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above — 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love! 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied*  the  god ; 
Sublime^  on  radiant  spires^  he   rode 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed. 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast; 

3  began  from.     First  treated  of. 

4  belied.     Disguised. 

5  Sublime.     High. 

6  spires.     Coils. 


246 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sov- 
ereign of  the  world. 
— The   listening  crowd   admire  the  lofty 
sound ;  30 

"A  present  deity !"  they  shout  around : 
"A  present  deity !"  the  vaulted  roofs  re- 
bound : 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god,^ 
Affects  to  nod 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

in 
The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet 
musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young: 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ;  40 

Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums ! 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face : 
Now    gives    the    hautboys^    breath;     he 

comes,  he  comes ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure,  50 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

IV 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew 
vain; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 
And   thrice   he   routed   all   his   foes,   and 

thrice  he  slew  the  slain  !  _ 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise. 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse:  60 

He  sung  Darius^  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

1  That  is,  assumes  for  the  moment  the  character 
of  Jove,  whose  nod  shook  heaven  and  earth. 

2  hautboys.     Oboes. 

3  Darius.     The   Persian   king  whom   Alexander 
had  overthrown. 


— With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor 
sate,  70 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 
The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures,* 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures.    80 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble. 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble; 
Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning. 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee! 
— The   many    rend   the    skies    with    loud 

applause ; 
So  Love   was   crowned,  but   Music   won 

the  cause.  90 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And     sighed    and    looked,     sighed    and 

looked. 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 
At  length,   with   love  and  wine  at  once 

oppressed, 
The    vanquished   victor   sunk   upon    her 

breast. 

VI 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain! 
Break  his  hands  of  sleep  asunder,        100 
And   rouse   him   like   a   rattling  peal   of 
thunder. 
Hark,  hark !  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
"Revenge,  revenge !"  Timotheus  cries, 
"See  the  Furies  arise! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And   the    sparkles  that   flash   from   their 
eyes!  no 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 

4  Lydian  measures,     A  soft  and  effeminate  type 
of  Greek  music. 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


247 


Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle 
were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew ! 
Behold  how  they  toss   their  torches   on 

high. 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And   glittering   temples   of   their   hostile 
gods !"  120 

—The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy : 
And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal 
to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,    like   another   Helen,   fired   another 
Troy! 

VII 

Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre  130 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle 

soft  desire 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ;i 
The   sweet   enthusiast    from   her   sacred 

store 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,^ 
With   Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  un- 
known before. 
— Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies;  140 

She  drew  an  angel  down! 

(1697) 

THE   SPACIOUS    FIRMAMENT   ON 
HIGH 

JOSEPH    ADDISON 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high. 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame. 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

Th'  unwearied  Sun  from  day  to  day 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

1  vocal  frame.     Organ. 

2  It   is  characteristic   of  the  organ   to  prolong 
•ounds  beyond  the  power  of  any  other  instrument. 


Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 

The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale ;  10 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth : 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball; 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found?      20 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

(1712) 


RULE   BRITANNIA 

JAMES    THOMSON 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's   com- 
mand 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main,' 
This  was  the  charter  of  her  land, 
And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain : 
Rule,     Britannia!     Britannia     rules     the 
waves ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 
Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 

Whilst   thou    shalt   flourish    great    and 
free 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all.       10 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise. 
More    dreadful    from    each    foreign 
stroke ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame ; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame. 

And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ;  19 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 

All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 
And  every  shore  it  circles,  thine? 

3  main.     Sea. 


248 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  Muses,  still^  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair; 
Blest     Isle,     with     matchless     beauty 
crowned, 
And    manly    hearts    to    guard    the 
fair : — 
Rule,     Britannia!     Britannia     rules    the 
waves ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves  I 

(1740) 

ODE 

WRITTEN  IN   1746 

WILLIAM    COLLINS 

[In  memory  of  British  soldiers  who   fell  in  the 
War   of   the   Austrian    Succession,    1745-46.] 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould. 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung. 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung: 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray,        9 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there ! 


(1746) 


ODE  TO  EVENING 
WILLIAM    COLLINS 


If  aught  of  oaten  stop2  or  pastoral  song 
May    hope,    chaste    Eve,    to    soothe    thy 
modest  ear. 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales; 

O  Nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright- 
haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy 
skirts, 
With  brede'  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed; 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak- 
eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leath- 
ern wing,  10 
Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

I  still.     Always. 

3  oaUn  stop.     Shepherd's  pipe. 

3  brede.     Embroidery. 


As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against   the    pilgrim    borne    in    heedless 
hum, — 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 

Whose    numbers,    stealing    through    thy 

darkening  vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit; 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return!  20 

For  when  thy  folding-star*  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 
Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her 

brows  with  sedge 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  love- 
lier still. 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then    lead,   calm   votaress,   where   some 

sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hal- 
lowed pile  30 
Or  upland  follows  gray 
Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driv- 
ing rain, 

Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered 

spires. 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks 
o'er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil.  40 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as 

oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest 
Eve; 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with 

leaves; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous 
air. 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

4  folding-star.     The  star  that  marked  the  time 
for  taking. in  the  flocks. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


249 


So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule 
Shall    Fancy,    Friendship,    Science,    rose- 
lipped   Health,  50 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  hymn  thy  favorite  name! 

(1746) 


For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 
burn, 
Or    busy    housewife    ply    her    evening 
care : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 
share. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

THOMAS    GRAY 

fThe  churchyard  was  that  of  Stoke  Pops, 
where  the  poet  himself  was  eventually  buried. 
His  indolent  and  meditative  habits  are  described 
in  lines  101-107;  for  his  "melancholy"  (line  120) 
compare  the  note  on  Milton's  //  Penseroso.1 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the 
lea, 
The    ploughman    homeward    plods     his 
weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and 
to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on 
the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 
flight. 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant 
folds: 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  com- 
plain ID 
Of  such  as,   wandering  near  her  secret 
bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath    those    rugged    elms,    that    yew- 
tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moul- 
dering heap. 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The    rude    forefathers   of   the   hamlet 
sleep. 

The    breezy    call    of     incense-breathing 
Morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw- 
built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing 
horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed.  20 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their   furrow  oft  the  stubborn   glebe* 
has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 
afield ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their 
sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor    Grandeur    hear    with    a    disdainful 

smile  31 

The   short   and  simple   annals   of   the 

poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er 
gave. 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour  -.2 — 
The   paths   of  glory   lead   but   to   the 
grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the 
fault, 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies 
raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and 
fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of 
praise.  AP 

Can  storied  urn»  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its   mansion   call   the   fleeting 
breath  ? 
Can    Honor's    voice   provoke*   the    silent 
dust. 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of 
death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial 
fire; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 
swayed. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

1  lUbe.     Sod. 

a  Await  .   .  .  hour.    The  inevitable  hour  awaits. 

3  storied  urn.     Decorated  burial  urn. 

4  provoke.    Arouse. 


250 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample 

page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er 

unroll ;  50 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial^   current  of  the 

soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves   of  ocean 
bear; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  un- 
seen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert 
air. 

Some  village  Hampden,^  that  with  daunt- 
less breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious   Milton,  here  may 
rest. 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's 
blood.  60 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  com- 
mand, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And    read   their   history   in   a   nation's 
eyes, 

Their    lot    forbade;    nor    circumscribed 
alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes 
confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a 
throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  man- 
kind; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth 
to  hide, 
To   quench   the    blushes   of    ingenuous 
shame,  70 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With    incense    kindled    at    the    Muse's 
flame.2 

Far   from  the   madding  crowd's   ignoble 
strife 
Their   sober  wishes   never   learned   to 
stray; 
Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor*  of  their 
way. 

I  genial.     Lively,  warm. 

a  Hampden.     A    Puritan    leader    who    resisted 
Charles  I. 

3  Write  flattering  verses  for  proud  patrons. 

4  tenor.     Course. 


Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  pro- 
tect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With     uncouth     rhymes     and     shapeless 
sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  un- 
lettered Muse,'  81 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die.^ 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This    pleasing   anxious   being   e'er   re- 
signed, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful 
day, 
Nor   cast   one   longing,   lingering  look 
behind? 

On   some   fond   breast   the   parting  soul 
relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re- 
quires ;  90 
Ee'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature 
cries, 
Ee'n    in    our   ashes    live    their    wonted 
fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonored 
dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  re- 
late. 
If  chance, '^  by  lonely  Contemplation  led. 
Some  kindred   spirit   shall   inquire   thy 
fate,— 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of 
dawn. 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There   at  the    foot  of  yonder  nodding 
beech  loi 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so 
high, 
His  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would  he 
stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles 
by. 

5  unlettered  Muse.     Village  poets. 

6  to  die.     How  to  die  (piously). 

7  chance.     Perchance. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


251 


"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in 
scorn, 
Muttering    his     wayward    fancies,    he 
would  rove; 
Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  for- 
lorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hope- 
less love. 


"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed 
hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite 
tree;  no 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was 
he; 


"The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we 
saw  him  borne, — 
Approach  and  read  ( for  thou  canst  read) 
the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged 
thorn." 


THE  EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  un- 
known ; 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble 
birth.i 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her 
own.  120 


Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sin- 
cere; 
Heaven    did   a   recompense    as    largely 
send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear; 
He  gained  from  Heaven   ('twas  all  he 
wished)  a  friend. 


No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread 
abode 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  re- 
pose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

(1751) 

I  His  humble  birth  did  not  prevent  his  love  of 
learning. 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 

[In  this  poem  Goldsmith  pictured  the  experi- 
ences of  his  childhood,  Auburn  being  generally 
identified  with  Lissoy,  his  early  Irish  home,  and 
the  village  parson  with  his  father  or  uncle.  The 
neighborhood  in  question  had  suffered  in  recent 
years  from  a  tyrannical  landlord  (line  37),  who 
had  evicted  many  tenants,  and  Goldsmith  re- 
garded this  as  typical  of  the  encroachments  of 
the  land-holding  class,  and,  in  general,  of  the 
growth  of  commerce  and  luxury  at  the  expense 
of  rural  life  and  an  equitable  distribution  of 
goods.] 

Sweet  Auburn!   loveliest  village  of  the 

plain; 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  la- 
boring swain. 
Where    smiling   spring   its   earliest   visit 

paid, 
And   parting   summer's   lingering  blooms 

delayed : 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats    of    my   youth,    when    every    sport 

could  please. 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 
Where   humble   happiness   endeared   each 

scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm. 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,  10 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neigh- 
boring hill. 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath 

the  shade 
For   talking   age   and   whispering   lovers 

made! 
How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free. 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spread- 
ing tree. 
While    many   a   pastime   circled    in    the 

shade. 
The   young  contending  as   the  old   sur- 
veyed ;  20 
And   many   a  gambol    frolicked   o'er   the 

ground. 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength 

went  round. 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  in- 
spired; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  re- 
nown 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 


252 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The   swain   mistrustless   of   his   smutted 
face, 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the 
place ; 

The   bashful   virgin's   side-long  looks   of 
love, 

The    matron's    glance    that    would    those 
looks  reprove :  30 

These   were   thy   charms,    sweet   village! 
sports  like  these. 

With   sweet   succession,  taught  even  toil 
to  please : 

These    round   thy   bowers   their   cheerful 
influence  shed: 

These    were    thy    charms — but    all    these 
charms  are  fled. 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the 
lawn, 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms 
withdrawn. 

Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is 
seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 

One   only    master   grasps   the   whole   do- 
main, 39 

And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy 
way; 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 

The   hollow-sounding   bittern   guards    its 
nest ; 

Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 

And    tires    their    echoes    with    unvaried 
cries ; 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 

And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mould- 
ering wall ; 

And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoil- 
er's hand,  49 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 
Ill   fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills   a 
prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  de- 
cay: 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may 
fade; 

A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has 
made : 

But    a    bold    peasantry,    their    country's 
pride. 

When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  sup- 
plied. 
A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs 
began, 

When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained 
its  man; 


For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome 
store. 

Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no 
more :  60 

His     best     companions,     innocence     and 
health ; 

And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But  times  are  altered;  trade's  unfeeling 
train 

Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain; 

Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets 
rose. 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  re- 
pose. 

And  every  want  to  opulence  allied. 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

Those   gentle   hours   that   plenty   bade   to 
bloom, 

Those  calm  desires   that  asked  but  little 
room,  70 

Those   healthful    sports   that   graced   the 
peaceful  scene, 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the 
green ; 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 

And    rural    mirth    and    manners    are    no 
more. 
Sweet  Auburn!   parent   of  the  blissful 
hour, 

Thy  glades   forlorn   confess  the  tyrant's 
power. 

Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 

Amidst    thy    tangling   walks    and   ruined 
grounds, 

And,    many    a    year    elapsed,    return    to 
view 

Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  haw- 
thorn grew,  80 

Remembrance   wakes,   with   all   her  busy 
train. 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past 
to  pain. 
In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world 
of  care. 

In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my 
share — 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me 
down ; 

To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  re- 
pose : 

I    still    had   hopes,    for   pride   attends    us 
still. 

Amidst    the    swains    to    show    my    book- 
learned    skill,  90 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


253 


And,  as  a  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns 

pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first 

she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

0  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  de- 
cline, 

Retreats   from  care,  that  never  must  be 

mine, 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like 

these 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease;  loo 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  tempta- 
tions try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to 

fly! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and 

weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous 

deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels      around      befriending      Virtue's 

friend; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  de- 
cay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the 

last.  III 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be 

past! 
Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  eve- 
ning's close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There,    as    I    passed   with   careless    steps 

and  slow. 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from 

below ; 
The   swain  responsive   as  the   milk-maid 

sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their 

young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from 

school,  120 

The    watch-dog's    voice    that    bayed    the 

whispering  wind. 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 

mind^ ; — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the 

shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 

made. 

1  vacant  mind.  Half-witted  or  idiotic  children 
were  familiar  sights  in  villages  of  Goldsmith's  time, 
and  were  not  viewed  as  repulsive. 


But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown   foot-way 

tread. 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing. 
That    feebly    bends    beside    the    plashy 

spring :  130 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for 

bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses 

spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till 

morn; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 
Near    yonder    copse,    where    once    the 

garden  smiled, 
And    still    where    many    a   garden-flower 

grows  wild, — 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place 

disclose, 
The    village    preacher's    modest    mansion 

rose.  140 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And    passing   rich    with    forty   pounds   a 

year; 
Remote    from    towns    he    ran    his    godly 

race, 
Nor    e'er    had    changed,    nor    wished    to 

change,  his  place; 
Unpractised    he    to    fawn,    or    seek    for 

power. 
By    doctrines    fashioned    to    the    varying 

hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to 

prize. 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than 

to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant 

train ; 

He   chid    their   wanderings    but    relieved 

their  pain ;  150 

The    long-remembered    beggar    was    his 

guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged 

breast ; 
The   ruined    spendthrift,    now   no   longer 

proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims 

allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat    by    his    fire,    and    talked    the    night 

away, 


254 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow 

done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how 

fields  were  won. 
Pleased   with   his   guests,   the   good   man 

learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless   their   merits   or  their   faults   to 

scan,  i6i 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 
Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his 

pride, 
And  e'en  his   failings  leaned  to  Virtue's 

side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt 

for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the 

skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  de- 
lay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the 

way.  170 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was 

laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dis- 
mayed, 
The    reverend   champion    stood.     At   his 

control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling 

soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch 

to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered 

praise. 
At  church,   with   meek  and   unaffected 

grace. 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double 

sway. 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to 

pray.  180 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
Even    children    followed    with    endearing 

wile. 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good 

man's  smile. 
His   ready   smile  a  parent's   warmth   ex- 
pressed. 
Their    welfare    pleased    him,    and    their 

cares  distressed : 
To   them   his   heart,   his   love,   his   griefs 

were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in 

heaven ; 


As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves 

the  storm,  190 

Tho'  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 

are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 
Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts 

the  way. 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,   in   his   noisy   mansion,   skilled   to 

rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to 

trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited 

glee  201 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed    the    dismal    tidings    when    he 

frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The   village   all    declared   how    much   he 

knew : 
*Twas  certain  he  ceuld  write,  and  cipher 

too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides 

presage. 
And   even   the   story   ran   that   he   could 

gauge  ;i  210 

In   arguing,   too,   the   parson   owned    his 

skill. 
For,  even  tho*  vanquished,  he  could  argue 

still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thun- 
dering sound 
Amazed      the      gazing     rustics      ranged 

around; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 

grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he 

knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.    The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  for- 
got. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on 

high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  pass- 
ing eye,  220 
Low    lies    that    house    where    nut-brown 

draughts  inspired. 
Where  graybeard   mirth  and  smiling  toi! 

retired, 

J  gause.     Judge  the  capacity  of  casks,  etc. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


255 


Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

profound,  One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  art. 

round.  Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace  play, 

The    parlor    splendors    of    that     festive  The   soul   adopts,    and   owns   their    first- 
place:  born  sway; 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 

floor,  Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 

The  varnished   clock  that  ticked   behind  But   the   long  pomp,   the   midnight   mas- 
the  door:  querade. 

The    chest,    contrived    a   double    debt    to  With   all   the    freaks    of    wanton    wealth 
pay,  arrayed —  260 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ;  In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  ob- 

The    pictures    placed    for    ornament    and  tain, 

use,  231  The  toiling  pleasure   sickens  into  pain; 

The  twelve  good  rules,!  the  royal  game  And,   e'en  while   fashion's   brightest   arts 
of  goose  ;*  decoy. 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 
the  day,  Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fen- 


nel gay; 
While   broken  tea-cups,  wisely   kept   for 

show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a 

row. 


survey 
The  rich   man's  joy  increase,  the  poor's 

decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits 

stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 


Vain  transitory  splendors!  could  not  all      Proud    swells    the    tide    with    loads    of 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion   from  its  freighted  ore. 

And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  the 
shore ;  270 

Hoards    e'en    beyond    the    miser's    wish 
abound. 


fall? 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  im- 
part 

An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's 


heart.  240      And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world 

Thither   no   more   the   peasant    shall   re-  around. 


pair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 


Yet  count  our  gains !     This  wealth  is  but 
a  name. 


No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's      That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the 
tale, 

No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  pre- 
vail; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall      Takes  up  a  space  that  many   poor  sup- 


same. 
Not  so  the  loss.    The  man  of  wealth  and 
pride 


clear. 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to 
hear; 


plied; 
Space   for  his  lake,  his   park's  extended 
bounds. 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found      Space     for    his    horses,     equipage,     and 
Careful    to    see    the    mantling    bliss    go  hounds: 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken 

sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half 

their  growth;  280 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant    spurns    the   cottage    from   the 

green : 


round ; 

Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be 
pressed, 

Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 
Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  dis- 
dain, 251 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 


1  rults.    Rule3  for  conduct  in  public  houses,  Around  the  world  each  needful   product 

attributed  to   Charles  I.  flieS 

2  goose.     A  game  played  with  counters  and  dice,  „  n  '.i       1  •  i  11  »• 
not  unlike  "parcheesi."  For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supphes; 


256 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure 
all. 

In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 
As    some    fair    female,   unadorned   and 
plain. 

Secure    to    please    while    youth    confirms 
her  reign, 

Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress 
supplies. 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her 
eyes ;  290 

But    when    those    charms    are    past,    for 
charms  are  frail. 

When   time   advances,    and   when    lovers 
fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress, — 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed : 

In  nature's   simplest  charms   at  first   ar- 
rayed, 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its   vistas   strike,   its   palaces    surprise; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smil- 
ing land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble 
band,  300 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to 
save, 

The    country    blooms — a    garden    and    a 
grave. 
Where  then,  ah !   where,   shall  poverty 
reside. 

To    'scape    the    pressure    of    contiguous 
pride? 

If    to    some    common's    fenceless    limits 
strayed. 

He   drives   his   flock  to   pick  the   scanty 
blade, 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth 
divide. 

And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  de- 
nied. 
If   to   the   city   sped — what   waits    him 
there  ? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share; 

To   see  ten   thousand  baneful   arts  com- 
bined 311 

To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind ; 

To  see   those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure 
know 

Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters   in  bro- 
cade. 

There  the  pale  artist  plies  his  sickly  trade; 

Here   while   the   proud   their   long-drawn 
pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the 
way. 


The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  mid- 
night  reign 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous 

train :  320 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing 

square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,   the   torches 

glare. 
Sure   scenes   like   these   no   troubles   e'er 

annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  I 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts? — Ah,  turn 

thine   eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless   shivering  fe- 
male lies. 
She    once,     perhaps,     in    village    plenty 

bless'd. 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed; 
Her    modest     looks    the    cottage    might 

adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the 

thorn :  330 

Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue 

fled. 
Near    her   betrayer's    door    she   lays    her 

head. 
And,   pinched    with    cold,    and    shrinking 

from  the  shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless 

hour. 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country 

brown. 
Do    thine,    sweet    Auburn, — ^thine,    the 

loveliest  train, — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger 

led. 
At  proud   men's   doors   they  ask  a  little 

bread !  340 

Ah,  no  I     To   distant  climes,   a  dreary 

scene, 
Where   half   the   convex   world   intrudes 

between. 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps 

they  go, 
Where   wild   Altama^    murmurs   to   their 

woe. 
Far  diff^erent  there  from  all  that  charmed 

before 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward 

ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 

I  Altama.  The  Altamaha  River,  in  Georgia, 
vaguely  used  for  American  settlements;  but  Gold- 
smith confuses  them  with  those  of  more  tropical 
regions. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


257 


Those  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget 

to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuri- 
ance crowned,  351 
Where   the   dark   scorpion   gathers   death 

around; 
Where   at   each   step   the   stranger    fears 

to  wake 
The    rattling    terrors    of    the    vengeful 

snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless 

prey, 
And   savage    men    more   murderous    still 

than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies. 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the 

skies. 
Far   different   these    from   every    former 

scene, 
The    cooling    brook,    the    grassy    vested 

green,  360 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That   only   sheltered    thefts   of    harmless 

love. 
Good  Heaven !   what  sorrows  gloomed 

that  parting  day, 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks 

away; 
When    the    poor    exiles,    every    pleasure 

past. 
Hung    round    the    bowers,    and    fondly 

looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in 

vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western 

main. 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant 

deep. 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to 

weep.  370 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To    new-found    worlds,    and    wept     for 

others'  woe ; 
But     for    himself,     in    conscious     virtue 

brave. 
He  only   wished   for  worlds  beyond   the 

grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The     fond     companion    of    his     helpless 

years, 
Silent     went     next,     neglectful     of    her 

charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her 

woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure 

rose,  380 


And   kissed    her   thoughtless   babes    with 

many  a  tear 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly 

dear, 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend 

relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 
O    luxury !    thou    cursed    by    Heaven's 

decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these 

for  thee  I 
How  do  thy  potions,  with   insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasure  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms    by    thee,    to    sickly    greatness 

grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own. 
At   every   draught  more  large   and  large 

they  grow,  391 

A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe; 
Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part 

unsound, 
Down,  down,  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin 

round. 
Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And    half    the    business    of    destruction 

done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I 

stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads 

the  sail. 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward     they     move,     a     melancholy 

band,  401 

Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the 

strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And     kind     connubial     Tenderness,     are 

there ; 
And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And   thou,    sweet    Poetry,   thou    loveliest 

maid, 
Still^  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  in- 
vade; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest 

fame ;  410 

Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  de- 
cried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my 

woe. 
That    found'st    me    poor    at    first,    and 

keep'st  me  so; 

I  Still.     Always. 


258 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  ex- 
cel, 
Thou   nurse  of   every  virtue,    fare  thee 

well! 
Farewell,  and  oh!  where'er  thy  voice  be 

tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side,^ 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid   slighted    truth    with   thy    persuasive 

strain ;  423 

Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of 

gain; 
Teach  him  that  states  of  native  strength 

possessed, 
Tho'  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift 

decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole^  away; 
While    self-dependent    power    can    time 

defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

(1770) 

THE    JACKDAW 

WILLIAM  COWPER 

(From  a  Latin  poem  by  Vincent  Bourne) 

There  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat, 
And  by   the   hoarseness   of  his   note, 

Might  be  supposed  a  crow; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  church, 
Where  bishop-like  he  finds  a  perch. 

And  dormitory  too. 

Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plate. 
That  turns  and  turns  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather; 
Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim,  10 
'Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him; 

He  chooses  it  the  rather. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight, 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  raree-show^ 
That  occupy  mankind  below. 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muses 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises, 

1  In  Sweden  or  Ecuador. 

2  moU.     Embankment. 

3  raree-show.     Peep-show. 


If  he  should  chance  to  fall.  21 

No;  not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate, 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 

He  sees  that  this  great  roundabout. 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law. 
Its  customs,  and  its  businesses. 
Are  no  concern  at  all  of  his. 

And  says — what  says  he? — "Caw." 

Thrice  happy  bird!     I  too  have  seen  31 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men; 

And,  sick  of  having  seen  'em. 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine. 

And  such  a  head  between  'em. 

(1782) 


TO  A   LOUSE 

On  Seeing  One  on  a  Lady's  Bonnet  at 
Church 

ROBERT    BURNS 

Ha!  whaur  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferliepi 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly;^ 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt^  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace; 
Tho',  faith !  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Ye   ugly,  creepin,   blastit  wonner, 
Detested,  shunn'd  by  saunt  an'  sinner, 
How  daur  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her — 

Sae  fine  a  lady?  10 

Gae     somewhere     else,     and     seek    your 
dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith!*  in  some  beggar's  hauffet  squat- 
tie  ;5 
There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and 

sprattle,o 
Wi*  ither  kindred  jumping  cattle. 

In  shoals  and  nations; 
Whaur   horn   nor   bane'^   ne'er   daur   un- 
settle 

Your  thick  plantations. 

1  crowlin  ferlie.     Crawling  wonder. 

2  sairly.     Greatly. 

3  strunl.     Strut. 

4  Su'ith!     Quick! 

5  hauffet  squallle.     Head  sprawl. 

6  spratUe.     Struggle. 

7  bane.     Bone  (comb). 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


259 


Now  baud  you  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rels,^  snug  and  tight;  20 
Na,  faith  ye  yet!  ye'U  no  be  right 

Till  ye've    got   on   it — 
The  vera  tapmost,  tow'rin  height 

O'  Miss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth!  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose 

out. 
As  plump  an'  gray  as  ony  grozet,2 

0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet,^ 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum,* 
I'd  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  dose  o't, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum.^  30 

1  wad  na  been  surpris'd  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy;^ 
Or  aiblens^  some  bit  duddie*  boy, 

On's  wyliecoat  ;^ 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi  !io  fye! 
How  daur  ye  do't? 

O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head. 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makin!  40 

Thae  winks  an'  finger-ends,  I  dread, 

Are  notice  takin! 

O  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us! 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us 

An'  foolish  notion: 
What  airs   in  dress  an'   gait  wad   lea'e^^ 
us 
An'  ev'n  devotion! 


(1786) 


TO  A  MOUSE 


On  Turning  her  up  in  her  Nest  with  the 
Plough,  November,  1785 

ROBERT    BURNS 

Wee,  sleekit,i2  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  I^^ 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'rin  pattle  !^* 

I  falt'rels.  Ribbon  ends.  3  grotet.  Gooseberry. 
3  rotet.     Resin.  4  smeddum.     Powder. 

5  droddutn.     Back. 

6  flainen  toy.  Flannel  cap.  7  aiblens.  Perhaps. 
8  duddie.  Ragged.  9  wyliecoat.  Vest. 
10  Lunardi.  Balloon-bonnet,  ii  Ua'e.  Leave. 
13  sUekit.     Sleek. 

13  bickering  brattle.      Hurrying  scamper. 

14  pattle.     Ploughstafif. 


I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that   ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle  lo 

At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion, 

An'    fellow-mortal! 

I    doubt    na,    whyles,^^    but    thou    may 

thieve; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun 

live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave^^ 

'S  a  sma'  request; 

I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave,^^ 

An'  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 

Its  silly  wa's^^  the  win's  are  strewin !     20 

An'  naething,  now,  to  big^^  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage^o  green! 
An*  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell2i  an'  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast. 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash !  the  cruel  coulter^s  passed 

Out  thro'  thy  cell.  30 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trou- 
ble, 

But23  house  or  hald,^* 
To  thole^s  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 

An'  cranreuch26  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane^T 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain; 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 
Gang  aft  a-gley,28  40 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain, 
For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me; 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But  ochi  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 

(1786) 

15  whyles.     At  times. 

16  An    occasional  ear  of  com  out   of  a  set  of 
twenty-four  sheaves. 

17  lave.    Remainder.      l8  silly  wa's.     Poor  walls. 
19  big.     Build.  30  foggage.     Herbage. 

21   snell.     Sharp.  2a   coulter.   Plough. 

23  Bui.     Without.  24  hold.     Shelter. 

2S  thole.     Endure.  36  cranreuch.   Hoar-frost. 

27  thy  lane.     Alone.  28  a-gley.     Awry. 


260 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


SCOTS  WHA  HAE 

ROBERT  BURNS 

[An  imagined  address  by  Robert  Bruce  to  his 
troops  before  the  battle  of  Bannockburn,  1314. 
It  was  set  to  a  tune  which  tradition  said  had 
been  used  as  a  march  by  the  Scottish  army  at  the 
time.] 

Scots,  wha  haei  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to   victory! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour;^ 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave?  lo 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  draw  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free!  20 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! — 
Let  us  do  or  die! 

(1794) 


THE  TIGER 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart?    10 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What    dread    hand?    and    what    dread 
feet? 

I  uiha  hat.     Who  have. 


What  the  hammer?    What  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?     What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When    the    stars    threw    down    their 

spears. 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did     He     who     made     the     lamb     make 

thee? 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright  21 

In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What   immortal   hand   or   eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

(1794) 


A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 

ROBERT   BURNS 

Is   there,  for   honest   poverty, 

That!  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp; 

The  man's  the  gowd^  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  grey,^  an'  a'  that;        10 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their 
wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a*  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,*  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 


He's  but  a  cuif^  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

1  That.     Any  who. 

2  gowd.     Gold. 

3  hoddin  grey.     Coarse  undyed  woollen. 

4  birkie.     Fellow. 

5  cuif.     Fool. 


20 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


261 


A  prince  can   mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'^  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that,  30 

The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 


If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have   I   not  reason  to  lament 
What   man   has   made   of  man? 

(1798) 


Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that). 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,^  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's   comin   yet    for   a'   that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that.  40 

(1795) 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY 
SPRING 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes. 

While  in  a  grove   I   sate  reclined. 

In    that    sweet    mood    when    pleasant 

thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green 

bower. 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths;     10 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The     birds     around     me     hopped     and 

played, 
Their  thoughts   I   cannot   measure: — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 

To  catch  the  breezy  air; 

And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can. 

That  there  was  pleasure  there.  20 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES 

CHARLES    LAMB 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com- 
panions. 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful 
school-days — 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  ca- 
rousing, 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my 
bosom  cronies — 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  wo- 
men; 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not 
see   her — 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no 
man;  10 

Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend 
abruptly; 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar 
faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of 

my  childhood. 
Earth    seem'd    a    desert    I    was    bound    to 

traverse. 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a 

brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's 

dwelling? 
So    might   we   talk   of   the   old    familiar  ■ 

faces — 

How   some   they   have    died,   and   some 

they  have  left  me. 
And  some  are   taken   from  me;  all  are 

departed;  20 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I  mauna  fa'.   Cannot  accomplish.    2   gree.    Prize.         (1 798) 


262 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


HIGHLAND  MARY 

ROBERT    BURNS 

[The  subject  of  the  poem  is  Mary  Campbell,  a 
sailor's  daughter,  to  whom  Burns  was  attached 
for  a  time  and  who  died  suddenly  on  her  way  to 
a  meeting  with  him.] 

Ye     banks,     and     braes,     and     streams 
around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green    be   your   woods,   and   fair   your 
flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie!^- 
There  Summer  first  unfald^  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How   sweetly   bloomed   the    gay   green 
birk,3 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom,  lo 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosomi 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow,  and  locked  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  oursels  asunder;  20 

But  O,  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That   nipped   my  flower   sae  early! 
Now  green's  the   sod,  and  cauld's  the 
clay. 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly!  30 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

(1799) 


THREE     YEARS     SHE     GREW     IN 
SUN   AND    SHOWER 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  show- 

_     er. 

Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

I  drumlie.     Muddy.  3  unfald.     Unfold. 

3  birk.     Birch. 


On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 
The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bow- 
er, 10 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To   kindle   or  restrain. 

"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm. 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The   floating  clouds   their  state   shall 

lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend;        20 
Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace   that    shall   mould   the   Maiden's 

form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place 
Where     rivulets     dance     their     wayward 

round. 
And    beauty    born    of    murmuring    sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face.  30 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here   in   this  happy   dell." 

Thus    Nature    spake. — The    work    was 

done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been,  41 

And  never  more  will  be. 

(1800) 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


263 


SHE    DWELT    AMONG    THE 
TRODDEN  WAYS 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 


UN- 


She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  vays 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove,^ 

A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
— Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be;  lo 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me! 

(1800) 


MY  HEART  LEAPS   UP  WHEN  I 
BEHOLD 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety.2 

(1807) 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field. 
Yon  solitary  Highland  lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 
O  listen!  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands  10 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands; 

X  Dove.     A  river.  2  piety.     Filial  reverence. 


A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? — 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago:  20 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work. 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill,  30 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

(1807) 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM   OF 
DELIGHT 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

[This  is  a  sketch  of  the  character  of   the  poet's 
wife.] 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 

A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay.       10 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 
A  countenance  in  which   did   meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 
Praise,   blame,   love,  kisses,   tears,   and 
smiles.  20 


264 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And   now   I   see  with   eye   serene 
The   very  pulse   of  the  machine  ;i 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death; 
The   reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,        foresight,       strength       and 

skill; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light.       30 

(1807) 


I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A 
CLOUD 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay:  lO 

Ten   thousand  saw   I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The    waves   beside    them    danced;    but 

they 
Outdid   the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay. 
In  such  a  jocund  company; 
I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 
What    wealth    the    show    to    me    had 

brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood,  20 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

(1807) 

ODE  TO   DUTY 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 
O  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

,    I  machine.     Organism. 


To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe: 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free: 
And   calm'st   the  weary  strife   of   frail 
humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them;  who,  in  love  and  truth,    10 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial^  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not: 
Oh!  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms   dread  Pow- 
er! around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 
And   happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 
And  joy  its  own  security.  20 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet   seek   thy   firm   support,  according 
to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred  30 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strict- 
ly, if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 
Me   this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their 

name, 
I   long   for   a   repose   that   ever   is   the 

same.  40 

Stern  Lawgiver!  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The   Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou    dost    preserve    the    stars    from 

wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through 

Thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

2  genial.     Natural. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


265 


To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend  50 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,   made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman 
let  me  live  I 

(1807) 


TO  A  SKY-LARK 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Up    with    me!    up    with    me    into    the 
clouds! 
For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong; 
Up    with    me,    up    with    me    into    the 
clouds! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ring- 
ing. 
Lift  me,  guide  me,  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind! 

I    have    walked    through    wildernesses 

dreary 
And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary; 
Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery,       lo 
Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 
There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy 

divine 
In  that  song  of  thine; 
Lift  me,  guide  me,  high  and  high 
To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy 

rest. 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth. 
Drunken  Lark!  thou  would'st  be  loth  20 
To  be  such  a  traveller  as  L 
Happy,  happy  Liver, 
With  a  soul   as   strong  as  a  mountain 

river 
Pouring    out    praise    to    the    Almighty 

Giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both! 

Alas!  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 
Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways 

must  wind; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind. 


As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heav- 
en, 
I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on. 
And    hope    for    higher    raptures,    when 
life's  day  is  done.  31 

(1807) 


ODE 

INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY    FROM    REC- 
OLLECTIONS  OF   EARLY   CHILDHOOD 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

[This  poem  was  based  on  the  writer's  own 
experience  of  a  childhood  remarkably  sensitive 
to  spiritual  "intimations."  "I  used  to  brood," 
he  said,  "over  the  stories  of  Enoch  and  Elijah, 
and  almost  to  persuade  m'yself  that,  whatever 
might  become  of  others,  I  should  be  translated, 
in  something  of  the  same  way,  to  heaven.  With 
a  feeling  congenial  to  this  I  was  often  unable 
to  think  of  external  things  as  having  external 
existence.  .  .  .  Many  times  when  going  to 
school  have  I  grasped  at  a  wall  or  tree  to  recall 
myself  from  this  abyss  of  idealism  to  the  real- 
ity" (compare  lines  142-146).  As  to  the  idea 
of  a  pre-existent  state  of  the  soul,  suggested  in 
lines  59-66,  Wordsworth  said  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  understood  to  propose  it  as  a  definite 
belief,  but  only  to  make  use  "as  a  poet"  of  the 
widespread  instinctive  notion  of  such  a  possi- 
bility.] 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove, 

and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 

Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may. 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which   I   have   seen   I   now 

can  see  no  more. 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes,    10 
And   lovely   is  the   rose, 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are 
bare; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The    sunshine    is   a   glorious   birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That   there   hath   passed  away   a   glory 
from   the   earth. 


266 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joy- 
ous song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of 

grief; 
A  timely   utterance   gave   that   thought 
relief, 
And  I  again  am  strong: 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from 

the   steep; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season 

wrong; 
I   hear  the   echoes   through  the   moun- 
tains throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields 
of  sleep, 

And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 

And  with   the   heart   of   May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday; — 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout     round     me,     let     me     hear     thy 
shouts,  thou  happy  shepherd-boy! 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forget- 
ting: 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's 
star,  60 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar: 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From   God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades   of   the    prison-house   begin   to 
close 
Upon  the  growing  boy, 
But   he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence 
it  flows,  70 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the 
east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At    length    the    man    perceives    it    die 

away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


IV 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the 
call 
Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The   heavens   laugh   with   you   in   your 
jubilee; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival,  40 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, ^ 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel 
it  all. 
Oh  evil  day,  if  I  were  sullen 
While   Earth   herself  is  adorning. 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling 

On  every  side. 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh   flowers;  while   the   sun   shines 
warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's 
arm : —  50 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 
— But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that 
is   gone: 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where    is   it   now,   the   glory   and   the 
dream? 

I  coronal.     Wreath. 


VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her 

own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural 

kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  moth- 
er's mind,  80 
And  no  unworthy  aim. 
The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate 
man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And    that    imperial   palace   whence   he 
came. 


Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born 

blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand 

he  lies. 
Fretted     by    sallies    of    his    mother's 

kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's 


eyes! 


90 


See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or 
chart. 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  hu- 
man life, 

.Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned 
art; 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


267 


A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 
But  it  will  not  be  long  lOO 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 
And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humor- 
ous stage"! 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied 

Age,  . 

That  Life  brmgs  with  her  m  her  equi- 
page; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 


Thou, 2  whose  exterior  semblance  doth 

belie 
Thy   soul's   immensity;  no 

Thou   best  philosopher,   who   yet   dost 

keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal 

deep. 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 
Mighty  prophet!   seer   blest! 
On  whom  those   truths  do  rest 
Which  we   are  toiling  all  our  lives  to 

find. 
In    darkness    lost,    the    darkness    of    the 

grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the   day,  a  master  o'er  a 

slave,  120 

A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
Thou    little    child,    yet    glorious     in    the 

might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's 

height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou 

provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus   blindly   with    thy   blessedness   at 

strife  ?3 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earth- 
ly freight, 
And    custom    lie    upon    thee    with    a 

weight, 
Heavy    as    frost,    and    deep    almost    as 

life! 

1  humorous  stage.  Stage  for  character  comedy 
— a  reference  to  the  old  term,  "comedy  of  hu- 
mours." 

2  Thou.     The  child. 

3  A  reference  to  the  childish  habits  described  in 
lines  91-108. 


O  joy  I  that  in  our  embers  130 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was   so   fugitive! 
The   thought  of  our  past  years  in  me 

doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction;  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be 

blest- 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With   new-fledged   hope   still   fluttering 
in  his  breast : — 
Not  for  these  I  raise  140 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things,* 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal 

nature 
Did    tremble    like    a    guilty    thing   sur- 
prised: 

But   for  those   first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections,      150 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing. 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power 
to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the 

being 
Of    the    eternal    Silence:    truths    that 
wake. 
To  perish  never; 
Which    neither    listlessness,    nor    mad 
endeavor, 
Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,     l6o 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal 
sea 
Which  brought  us  hither. 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And   see   the  children   sport   upon   the 

shore, 
And    hear    the    mighty    waters    rolling 
evermore. 

4  Of  the  reality  of  what  is  perceived  by  the 

senses. 


268 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


Then  sing,  ye  birds,   sing,   sing  a  joy- 
ous song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound     170 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 
What   though   the   radiance   which  was 

once  so  bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the 
hour 
Of  splendor  in   the  grass,  of  glory  in 
the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find       180 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 
In    the   primal    sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In    years    that    bring    the    philosophic 
mind. 

xr 
And   O,   ye   fountains,   meadows,   hills, 

and  groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your 
might;  _  190 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 
To    live    beneath    your    more    habitual 

sway. 
I    love    the    brooks   which    down    their 

channels  fret. 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly 

as  they; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born 
day 

Is  lovely  yet; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  set- 
ting sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mor- 
tality; 
Another    race    hath    been,    and    other 
palmsi  are  won.  200 

Thanks   to  the  human  heart  by  which 

we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and 

fears. 
To  me  the  meanest   flower  that  blows 

can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 
tears. 

(1807) 

z  palms.     Prices.  , 


SONNETS 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

COMPOSED   UPON    WESTMINSTER   BRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER  3,    l8o2 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more 
fair; 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could 
pass   by 

A  sight  so  touching  in   its  majesty: 

This  city  now  doth,  like  a  garment, 
wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare. 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and 
temples  lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smoke- 
less air. 

Never   did   sun   more   beautifully   steep 

In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or 
hill;  10 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 

Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  stilll 

LONDON,  1802 

[Written  after  the  poet's  return  from  a  visit 
to  France.  "I  could  not  but  be  struck,"  he  said, 
"with  the  vanity  and  parade  of  our  own  country, 
especially  in  great  towns  and  cities,  as  contrasted 
with  the  quiet,  and  I  may  say  the  desolation, 
that   the   Revolution    had   produced    in    France."] 

Milton!  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this 

hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and 

pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and 

bower, 
Have    forfeited    their    ancient    English 

dower 
Of  inward   happiness.     We  are   selfish 

men; 
Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom, 

power. 
Thy   soul    was   like    a   star,   and   dwelt 

apart: 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was 

like    the   sea:  lo 

Pure    as   the    naked   heavens,   majestic, 

free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common 

way. 
In    cheerful    godliness;     and    yet    thy 

heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


269 


WRITTEN    IN    LONDON,    SEPTEMBER,    l802 

O    friend!    I    know    not    which    way    I 

must    look 
For  comfort,  being  as  I  am,  oppressed, 
To    think    that    now    our    life    is    only 

dressed 
For  show;  mean  handy-work  of  crafts- 
man, cook, 
Or    groom! — We    must    run    glittering 

like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest: 
The   wealthiest   man   among   us   is   the 

best: 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense. 
This  is  idolatry;  and  these  we  adore:  lo 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are   no 

more: 
The    homely   beauty   of   the    good    old 

cause 
Is  gone, — our  peace,  our  fearful   inno- 
cence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household 
laws. 

IT  IS  NOT  TO  BE  THOUGHT  OF 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the  open 

sea 
Of     the     world's     praise,     from     dark 

antiquity 
Hath    flowed,    "with    pomp    of    waters, 

unwithstood," 
Roused    though    it    be    full   often    to    a 

mood 
Which    spurns    the    check    of    salutary 

bands, — 
That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs 

and  sands 
Should  perish,  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  forever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 
Armory    of    the    invincible    knights    of 

old;  10 

We    must   be   free   or    die,   who    speak 

the  tongue 
That  Shakespeare   spake,  the  faith  and 

morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we 

are   sprung 
Of     Earth's     first     blood,     have     titles 

manifold. 

THE  WORLD  IS  TOO   MUCH   WITH   US 

The   world  is   too   much   with   us;   late 

and   soon. 
Getting    and    spending,    we    lay    waste 

our  powers: 
Little  we   see   in   Nature   that  is   ours; 


We    have    given    our    hearts    away,    a 

sordid   boon! 
The  sea  that   bares  her  bosom  to  the 

moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all 

hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping 

flowers; 
For    this,    for    everything,    we    are    out 

of  tune; 
It     moves    us    not. — Great    God!      I'd 

rather   be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn;  lo 
So  might   I,  standing  on  this  pleasant 

lea. 
Have    glimpses    that    would    make    me 

less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the 

sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed 

horn. 

(1807) 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 

A  Naval  Ode 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

Ye  mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas! 

Whose    flag    has    braved,    a    thousand 

years, 
The  battle  and  the  breeze! 
Your    glorious    standard    launch    again 
To  match  another  foe! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle   rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  10 

The   spirits   of  your   fathers 

Shall   start    from    every   wave! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And   Ocean   was   their   grave: 

Where   Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell,^ 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye   sweep   through   the   deep. 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow! 

While  the  battle   rages   loud  and   long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  20 

^  I  Admiral  Robert  Blake  died  at  sea  in  1657,  and 
Nelson  (at  Trafalgar)  in  1805. 


270 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    ^ACE 


Britannia   needs   no   bulwarks, 

No   towers  along  the   steep; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep; 

With  thunders  from   her  native   oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below, — 

As   they   roar  on  the   shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle   rages   loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  30 

The  meteor  flag  of   England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,   then,   ye   ocean   warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name 

When   the   storm   has  ceased  to   blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow.    40 

(1809) 


SHE  WALKS  IN   BEAUTY 

LORD    BYRON 

[Written  in  honor  of  Lady  Horton,  whom 
Byron  had  seen  in  a  mourning  gown  decorated 
with  spangles.] 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven   to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves   in   every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face;       10 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 
But   tell   of   days   in   goodness   spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose   love   is  innocentl 

(1815) 


KUBLA  KHAN 

SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE 

[Written  in  1797.  According  to  the  poet's 
account,  he  had  taken  an  anodyne  to  relieve 
pain,  and  was  reading  in  the  old  volume  called 
Purchas'  Pilgrimage  how  "the  Khan  Kubla  com- 
manded a  palace  to  be  built,"  when  he  fell  asleep. 
He  dreamed,  and  on  awaking  recollected  the 
dream  with  intense  clearness,  beginning  to  write 
the  poem  as  an  account  of  it.  He  was  presently 
interrupted  by  a  business  call,  and  on  returning 
to  his  manuscript  could  remember  nothing  fur- 
ther, so  left  the  poem  unfinished.  Kubla  Khan 
was  an  Asiatic  prince  of  the  13th  century,  who 
founded  the  Mongol  dynasty  in  China.] 


In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome   decree: 
Where   Alph,   the   sacred   river,   ran 
Through   caverns    measureless   to   man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With    walls    and    towers    were    girdled 

round: 
And    here    were    gardens    bright    with 

sinuous  rills. 
Where    blossomed    many    an    incense- 
bearing  tree; 
And  here  were   forests  ancient  as  the 
hills,  10 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh!  that  deep  romantic  chasm 
which   slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn 
cover! 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was 
haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon- 
lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless 
turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were 
breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was 
forced: 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted 
burst  20 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebound- 
ing hail, 

Or  chaflfy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's 
flail: 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once 
and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy 
motion 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


271 


Through    wood    and    dale    the    sacred 

river  ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless 

to  man, 
And   sank   in   the   tumult   to   a   lifeless 

ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from 

far 
Ancestral   voices   prophesying  war!   30 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 
Where      was      heard      the      mingled 

measure 
From  the   fountain  and   the   caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of 
ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian   maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,  40 

Singing  of   Mount    Abora. 

Could    I    revive   within    me 

Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win 
me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And   all   who    heard    should    see    them 

there, 
And   all   should   cry,   Beware!   Beware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave   a   circle    round   him   thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

(1816) 


ON    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO 
CHAPMAN'S   HOMER 

JOHN    KEATS 

[Keats  had  not  had  the  advantage  of  a  classi- 
cal education;  in  this  sonnet  he  records  one  of 
the  episodes  of  intellectual  awakening  which  he 
owed  to_  friends  who  introduced  him  to  the 
classics   in   translation.] 

Much  have  I  travel'd  in  the  realms  of 

gold. 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms 

seen; 
Round    many    western    islands    have    I 

been 


Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft   of   one  wide   expanse   had   I   been 

told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his 

demesne; 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I   heard   Chapman   speak  out  loud 

and  bold: 
Then  felt   I   like   some  watcher  of  the 

skies  9 

When    a    new    planet    swims    into    his 

ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle 

eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his 

men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  sur- 
mise— 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

(1816) 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND 
CRICKET 

JOHN    KEATS 

[This  and  the  following  sonnet  were  written  by 
Keats  and  Hunt  in  friendly  competition.] 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the 
hot  sun 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will 
run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new- 
mown  mead; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes 
the  lead 

In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights;  for  when  tired  out 
with  fun 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant 
weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never; 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the 
frost  10 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove 
there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increas- 
ing ever, 

And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half 
lost, 

The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy 
hills. 

(1817) 


272 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE 
CRICKET 

LEIGH    HUNT 

Green   little  vaulter  in   the   sunny  grass, 
Catching   your    heart   up    at    the    feel    of 

June, 
Sole  voice   that's   heard   amidst   the   lazy 

noon, 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summon- 
ing brass; 
And   you,    warm    little    housekeeper,    who 

class 
With  those  who   think  the  candles  come 

too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome 

tune 
Nick    the    glad    silent    moments    as    they 

pass :  8 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 
One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth. 
Both   have   your   sunshine;   both,   though 

small,  are  strong 
At    your    clear    hearts;    and    both    seem 

given  to  earth 
To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural 

song — 
Indoors    and    out,    summer    and    winter, 

Mirth. 

(1817) 

THANATOPSIS 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

[The  title  means  "Vision  of  Death."  In  his 
collected  poems  Bryant  adds  the  words:  "Writ- 
ten in  the  poet's  eighteenth  year."] 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with   her  visible    forms,   she 

speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.    When 

thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images  10 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow 

house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at 

heart; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  .sky,  and  list 
To    Nature's    teachings,    while    from    all 

around — 


Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of 

air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In   all   his   course;    nor  yet   in   the   cold 

ground. 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many 

tears,  20 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee, 

shall   claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,   lost  each  human  trace,   surrender- 
ing up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude 

swain 
Turns  with  his   share,  and  treads  upon. 

The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce 

thy  mould.  30 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou 

wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie 

down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with, 

kings. 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the 

good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.    The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the 

vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In   majesty,  and   the  complaining  brooks 
That    make    the    meadows    green;    and, 
poured  round  all,  42 

Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.  The  golden  sun. 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  hea- 
ven. 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that 

tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That    slumber    in    its    bosom. — Take    the 
wings  so 

Of    morning,    pierce   the    Barcan    wilder- 
ness,^ 
I  Barcan  wilderness.     In  eastern  Africa. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


273 


Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where   rolls   the   Oregon,    and   hears   no 

sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are 

there : 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 

down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there 

alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  with- 
draw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take   note   of   thy    departure?      All    that 

breathe  60 

Will    share    thy    destiny.     The   gay    will 

laugh 
When   thou   art  gone,  the   solemn  brood 

of  care 
Plod    on,    and    each    one    as    before    will 

chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall 

leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and 

shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the 

long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's   fresh  spring,  and  he 

who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and 

maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed 

man —  70 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side. 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall   follow 

them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes 

to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To    that    mysterious    realm,    where    each 

shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou    go    not,    like    the    quarry-slave    at 

night. 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained 

and  soothed 
By    an    unfaltering    trust,    approach    thy 

grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his 

couch  80 

About    him,    and   lies    down    to   pleasant 

dreams. 


TO    A    WATERFOWL 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew. 
While    glow    the    heavens    with    the    last 

steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 
pursue 
Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee 

wrong. 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide,  10 
Or   where   the  rocking  billows   rise   and 
sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches    thy    way    along    that    pathless 

coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmos- 
phere. 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near.        20 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and 

rest. 
And   scream    among   thy    fellows;    reeds 
shall  bend. 
Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet  on  my 

heart 
Deeply   hath   sunk   the   lesson  thou   hast 
given. 
And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  cer- 
tain flight,  30 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


(1817) 


(1818) 


274 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


PROUD    MAISIE 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

[An  imitation  of  an  old  ballad-song;  sung  by 
the  mad  woman,  Madge  Wildfire,  in  The  Heart 
of  Midlothian.} 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird. 

When  shall  I  marry  me?" 
"When  six  braw^  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

"Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly?"  10 

"The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

"The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady. 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing, 

'Welcome,  proud  lady.' " 

(i8i8) 

OZYMANDIAS 
PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of 
stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.  Near  them,  on  the 
sand. 

Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose 
frown. 

And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  com- 
mand. 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions 
read 

Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  life- 
less things, 

The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart 
that  fed:  8 

And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 

"My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings : 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  de- 
spair !" 

Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  decay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and 
bare 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

(i8i8) 
J  braw.     Brave. 


THE  AMERICAN   FLAG 

JOSEPH    RODMAN    DRAKE 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down,         10 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form. 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven. 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free,        20 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke. 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar. 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory! 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly. 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet,    30 
Has  dimmed   the  glistening  bayonet. 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance. 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud. 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow,  41 
And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale. 
Sweeps   darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back      50 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


275 


Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet !  60 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before 
us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And   Freedom's  banner   streaming  o'er 


(1819) 


ODE    TO    A    NIGHTINGALE 

JOHN    KEATS 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness 
pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had 
drunk. 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards^  had 
sunk : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But   being   too   happy   in   thine   happi- 
ness,— 
That    thou,    light-winged    Dryad^    of 
the  trees. 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  number- 
less, 
Singest    of    summer    in    full-throated 
ease.  lO 

O,   for  a  draught  of  vintage!   that  hath 
been 
Cooled   a  long  age  in  the   deep-delved 
earth. 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green. 
Dance,  and  Provencal  song,^  and  sun- 
burnt mirth ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full   of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippo- 
crene,* 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the 
brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world 
unseen. 
And   with   thee    fade   away   into  the 
forest  dim :  20 

1  Lethe-wards.  Lethe  was  the  river  of  forget- 
fulness  of  which  the  dead  drank  on  reaching  the 
under-world. 

2  Dryad.     Forest  spirit. 

3  Provencal  song.     Songs  of  southern  France. 

4  Hippocrene.     A  fountain  of  the  Muses. 


Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never 
known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,    where   men    sit   and   hear   each 
other  groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray 
hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre- 
thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of 
sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous 
eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at   them  beyond 
to-morrow.  30 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee. 
Not    charioted    by    Bacchus    and    his 
pards,^ 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 
Though   the   dull   brain   perplexes   and 
retards : 
Already  with  thee!  tender  is  the  night. 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her 
throne. 
Clustered   around   by   all   her    starry 
Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save   what    from    heaven    is    with   the 
breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  wind- 
ing mossy  ways.  4o 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the 
boughs. 
But,   in   embalmed^   darkness,    guess   each 
sweet 
Wherewith   the   seasonable    month    en- 
dows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree 
wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eg- 
lantine ; 
Fast    fading    violets    covered    up    in 
leaves ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The    coming    musk-rose,    fully    of    dewy 
wine. 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  sum- 
mer eves.  SO 

1  pards.     Leopards. 

2  embalmed.     Balmy. 


276 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Darklingi  I  listen;  and,  ior^  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful 
Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused 
rhyme, 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To   cease   upon   the   midnight  with   no 
pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul 
abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  I 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears 
in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal 
Bird! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was 
heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a 
path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when, 
sick   for  home. 
She    stood    in    tears    amid    the    alien 
corn  ;3 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the 
foam 
Of  perilous   seas,   in   faery  lands   fof- 
lorn.  70 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole 
self! 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still 
stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried 
deep 
In  the  next  valley  glades : 
Was  it  3  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
Fled   is   that   music :  —  Do    I    wake   or 
sleep  ?  80 

(1820) 

1  Darkling.     In  the  dark. 

2  for.     Because. 

3  alien  corn.      Foreigners'  grain.      See  Book  of 
Ruth,  chapter  2. 


ODE   ON    A   GRECIAN   URN 

JOHN    KEATS 

[The  subject  of  this  poem  is  probably  not  a 
single  definite  urn,  though  Keats  may  have  had 
particularly  in  mind  an  ancient  vase  which  is 
still  preserved  at  Holland  House,  London.] 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou   foster-child  of   silence  and  slow 
time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our 
rhyme : 
What    leaf-fringed    legend   haunts    about 
thy   shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What    men    or    gods    are    these?      What 
maidens   loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to 
escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?    What  wild 
ecstasy?  10 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  un- 
heard 
Are  sweeter;   therefore,  ye  soft  pipes, 
play  on; 
Not   to   the   sensual^    ear,   but,   more   en- 
deared. 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst 
not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be 
bare ; 

Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou 
kiss. 
Though   winning   near  the  goal — yet,   do 
not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not 
thy   bliss, 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be 
fair !  20 


Ah,    happy,   happy   boughs!    that   cannot 
shed 
Your  leaves,   nor  ever  bid  the   Spring 
adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More    happy    love !    more    happy,    happy 
love ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 

I  sensual.     Physical. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


277 


All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and 
cloyed, 

A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching 
tongue.  30 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 
To    what    green    altar,    O    mysterious 
priest, 
Lead'st   thou   that   heifer   lowing   at    the 
skies. 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands 
dressed? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel. 
Is   emptied   of   this    folk,    this    pious 
morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  re- 
turn. 40 

O  Attic  shape !  Fair  attitude !  with  brede^ 
Of    marble    men    and    maidens    over- 
wrought. 
With    forest    branches    and    the    trodden 
weed; 
Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of 
thought2 
As  doth  eternity :  Cold  Pastoral ! 
When    old    age    shall    this    generation 
waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other 
woe 
Than  ours,   a    friend   to   man,   to   whom 
thou  say'st, 
"Beauty   is  truth,  truth  beauty, — that  is 

all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know."  50 

(1820) 


TO   AUTUMN 

JOHN    KEATS 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness. 
Close    bosom-friend    of    the    maturing 
sun; 
Conspiring   with    him    how    to    load    and 
bless 
With    fruit    the    vines    that    round    the 
thatch-eaves  run; 

r  brede.     Embroidery. 

a  Entice  us  from  our  discontent. 


To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage- 
trees. 
And  fill  all   fruit  with  ripeness  to  the 
core; 
To  swell   the  gourd,  and  plump   the 
hazel   shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more. 
And    stilf  more,    later    flowers    for   the 

bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never 
cease,  10 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their 
clammy  cells. 

Who   hath   not   seen  thee  oft  amid   thy 
store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad   may 
find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing 
wind; 
Or  on  a  half -reaped  furrow  sound  asleep. 
Drowsed    with    the    fume    of    poppies, 
while  thy  hook 
Spares    the    next    swath    and    all    its 
twined  flowers : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost 
keep  19 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours 
by  hours. 

Where   are   the   songs   of    Spring?     Ay, 
where  are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music 
too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying 
day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy 
hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats 
mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,^  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or 
dies; 
And    full-grown   lambs    loud    bleat    from 
hilly  bourn  ;2  30 

Hedge-crickets    sing;     and    now    with 

treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden- 
croft  ;3 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 

(1820) 

1  sallows.     Willows. 

2  bourn.     Boundary  (of  a  pasture). 

3  croft.     Plot. 


278 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

[Shelley's  own  note  on  this  poem  is  as  fol- 
lows: "Conceived  and  chiefly  written  in  a  wood 
that  skirts  the  Arno,  near  Florence,  and  on  a 
day  when  the  tempestuous  wind,  whose  tempera- 
ture is  at  once  mild  and  animating,  was  col- 
lecting the  vapors  which  pour  down  the  autumnal 
rains.  .  .  .  The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the 
end  of  the  third  stanza  is  well  known  to  natu- 
ralists. The  vegetation  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
of  rivers,  and  of  lakes  sympathizes  with  that  of 
the  land  in  the  change  of  seasons,  and  is  con- 
sequently influenced  by  the  winds  which  an- 
nounce it."  The  latter  part  of  the  poem  ex- 
presses Shelley's  interpretation  of  his  own 
personality  (see  especially  line  56),  at  a  time 
when  his  radical  views  had  made  him  a  sus- 
pected exile,  but  when  he  still  expected  the  ulti- 
mate triumph  of  the  doctrines  of  freedom  for 
which  he  had  always  contended.  The  metre  is 
the  Italian  "terza  rima";  , notice  that  the  first 
and  third  lines  of  each  tercet  rime  with  the 
middle  line  of  the  preceding.] 


Angels  of  rain  and  lightning;   there  are 

spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like    the    bright    hair    uplifted    from    the 

head  20 

Of   some  fierce   Maenad,^  even   from   the 

dim  verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm. 
Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing 

night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst : 
Oh  hear ! 


O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's being. 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 
leaves  dead 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 
fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,   and   hectic 

red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes :   O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 

low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine   azure    sister   of   the    Spring   shall 

blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and 
fill  10 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in 
air) 

With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill; 

Wild    Spirit,    which    art    moving    every- 
where ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  Oh  hear ! 


Thou    on   whose   stream,   'mid   the   steep 

sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves 

are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven 

and  Ocean, 


Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer 

dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,  30 
Lulled    by    the    coiP    of    his    crystalline 

streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay,^ 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 

Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day. 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flow- 
ers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them ! 
Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  pow- 
ers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far 

below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which 

wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with 

fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  Oh 

hear! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and 
share 

I  Mmnad.     A  frenzied  Bacchic  dancer. 
3  coil.     Murmur. 

3  Baict's  hay.     Near  Naples;  in  the  vicinity  are 
many  ancient  ruins. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


279 


The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!    If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The    comrade    of    thy    wanderings    over 

heaven. 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce   seemed   a   vision;    I   would   ne'er 

have   striven  51 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore 

need. 
Oh  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!     I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 

bowed 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and 

proud. 

V 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will   take    from   both   a  deep,   autumnal 

tone,  60 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.  Be  thou,  spirit 
fierce, 

My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  uni- 
verse 

Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new 
birth ! 

And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished 
hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  man- 
kind! 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !    O  Wind,    70 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  be- 
hind? 

(1820) 


THE  CLOUD 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

I    bring   fresh   showers    for   the  thirsting 
flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 


From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that 
waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When   rocked  to  rest  on  their   mother's 
breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,      10 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bow- 
ers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or 
stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue 
smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The   sanguine    sunrise,    with    his    meteor 
eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack,^ 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the 
lit  sea  beneath. 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings   folded  I   rest,  on  mine  airy 
nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden. 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 

Glides     glimmering    o'er     my     fleece-like 
floor, 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
I  rack.     Cloud-mass. 


280 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's 

thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 

And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built 
tent. 
Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me 
on  high, 
Are    each    paved   with    the    moon    and 
these. 


I   bind  the   sun's  throne   with  a  burning 
zone. 
And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel 
and  swim,  61 

When   the   whirlwinds   my   banner  un- 
furl. 
From    cape   to   cape,    with    a   bridge-like 
shape. 
Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, — 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The    triumphal    arch    through    which    I 
march 
With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained 
to  my  chair, 
Is  the  million-colored  bow ;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove. 
While    the    moist    earth    was    laughing 
below. 


I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass   through   the   pores   of   the   ocean 
and  shores; 
I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For   after   the   rain   when   with   never   a 
stain 
The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their 
convex  gleams 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph,^ 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost 
from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


(1820) 

I  cenotaph. 


Empty  tomb. 


TO    A    SKYLARK 
PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 
Bird  thou  never  wert — 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 
The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest.  10 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 
begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows^ 
In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we   hardly   see,  we   feel  that  it  is 
there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heav- 
en is  overflow'd.  30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see. 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody : — 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To    sympathy    with    hopes    and    fears    it 
heeded  not :  40 

a  The  waning  morning  moon. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


281 


Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With   music  sweet   as  love,   which   over- 
flows her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden^ 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen 
it  from  the  view.  50 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In   its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes   faint   with   too   much   sweet   these 
heavy-winged  thieves : 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,   and   clear,   and   fresh — thy   music 
doth  surpass.  60 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal,2 

Or  triumphal  chant. 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we   feel  there  is  some 
hidden  want.  70 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy   strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ig- 
norance of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou   lovest,   but   ne'er   knew   love's   sad 
satiety.  80 

I  unbeholden.     Gratuitously, 
a  Hymeneal.     Wedding. 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a 
crystal  stream? 


We  look  before  and  after,^ 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 
W'th  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought.  90 


Yet,  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 


Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of 
the  ground !  100 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The   world   should   listen   then,  as   I   am 
listening  now. 

(1820) 


A   DIRGE 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Rough  wind,  that  moanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain. 
Bare  woods,  whose  branches  strain. 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, 
Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong! 

(1824) 

3  before  and  after.     Forward  and  backward. 


282 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


A  FOREST  HYMN 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples. 

Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave,'- 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them — ere  he 

framed 
The  lofty  vault,^  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of   anthems;   in  the  darkling 

wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And    offered     to    the    Mightiest    solemn 

thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
Which,    from    the    stilly    twilight    of    the 

place,  10 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high 

in  heaven 
Mingled   their   mossy  boughs,   and   from 

the  sound 
Of   the   invisible   breath   that   swayed    at 

once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and 

bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless 

power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should    we,    in   the   world's   riper   years, 

neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have   raised?     Let 

me,  at  least,  20 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood. 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath    reared    these    venerable    columns. 

Thou 
Didst    weave    this    verdant   roof.      Thou 

didst   look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and  forthwith  rose 
All  these   fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in 

thy  sun. 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in 

thy  breeze. 
And  shot  toward  heaven.     The  century- 
living  crow. 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old 

and  died  30 

Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,   they 

stood, 

I  architrave.     The    timber    that    rests    on     the 
column. 

a  vault.     Vaulted  ceiling. 


As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and 

dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim 

vaults. 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or 

pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the 

form 
Of  thy  fair  works.    But  Thou  art  here — 

Thou  fiU'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That    from   the    inmost    darkness    of    the 

place  42 

Comes,   scarcely   felt;   the  barky   trunks, 

the  ground, 
The   fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct^ 

with  Thee. 
Here  is  continual  worship ; — Nature,  here. 
In  the  tranquillity  that  Thou  dost  love. 
Enjoys  thy  presence.    Noiselessly,  around. 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst 

its  herbs. 
Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps 

the  roots  50 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not 

left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  the  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,   strength, 

and  grace 
Are  here  to  speak  of  Thee.    This  mighty 

oak — 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I   stand  and 

seem 
Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince. 
In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the 

deep. 
E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with 

which  60 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.    Nestled  at  his 

root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 
Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate   forest 

flower. 
With  scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a 

smile. 
Seems,    as   it   issues    from   the   shapeless 

mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe. 
3  instinct.     Saturated. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


283 


My  heart  is   awed  within   me   when   I 

think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on,    70 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.    Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lol  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth    presses — ever    gay    and    beautiful 

youth 
In  all   its  beautiful   forms.     These   lofty 

trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not 

lost  80 

One  of  earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom 

yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet   shall  lie.     Life   mocks  the  idle 

hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy  Death — ^yea,  seats  him- 
self 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes    his    own    nourishment.      For    he 

came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no 

end. 

There   have   been   holy   men   who   hid 

themselves  90 

Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their   lives    to    thought    and   prayer,   till 

they   outlived 
The     generation    born    with    them,    nor 

seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ; — and  there  have  been  holy 

men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life 

thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The    passions,    at    thy    plainer    footsteps 

shrink  100 

And  tremble  and  are  still.    O  God !  when 

Thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set 

on  fire 
The    heavens    with    falling   thunderbolts, 

or  fill 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament 
The   swift   dark  whirlwind   that  uproots 

the  woods 


And  drowns  the  villages;   when,  at  thy 

call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of     these     tremendous     tokens     of     thy 

power,  no 

His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies 

by? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the 

wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.  Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty. 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 

(1825) 

A  HEALTH 

EDWARD    COATE    PINKNEY 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, — 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds;  10 

And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they. 

And   from  her  lips  each   flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Aflfections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy. 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers ;  20 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft. 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain; 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain; 
But  memory,   such  as  mine  of  her. 

So  very  much  endears,  30 

When  death  is  nigh,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 


284 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, — 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  se:: 

The  seeming  paragon. 
Her   health !    and    would   on    earth   there 
stood 

Some   more  of  such   a   frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name.  40 

(1825) 


THE  LANDING   OF  THE  PILGRIM 
FATHERS    IN    NEW    ENGLAND 

FELICIA    DOROTHEA    HEMANS 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and   rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er. 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came;  10 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear; 
They  shook  the  depth  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang. 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods 
rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free!  20 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From    his    nest    by    the    white    wave's 
foam; 
And    the    rocking    pines    of    the    forest 
roared — 
This  was  their  welcome  home! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  ; — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 


There  was  woman's  fearless  eye. 
Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ;  30 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high. 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? — 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they 
found — 

Freedom  to  worship  God.  40 

(1826) 


THE  SON  OF  GOD  GOES  FORTH 
TO  WAR 

REGINALD    HEBER 

The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 

A  kingly  crown  to  gain ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar: 

Who  follows  in  His  train? 

Who  best  can  drink  His  cup  of  woe. 

Triumphant  over  pain. 
Who  patient  bears  His  cross  below. 

He  follows  in  His  train. 


The  martyr  first,  whose  eagle  eye 
Could  pierce  beyond  the  grave, 

Who  saw  his  Master  in  the  sky. 
And  called  on  Him  to  save : 


10 


Like  Him,  with  pardon  on  his  tongue, 

In  midst  of  mortal  pain. 
He  prayed  for  them  that  did  the  wrong: 

Who  follows  in  His  train? 

A  glorious  band,  the  chosen  few 

On  whom  the  Spirit  came, 
Twelve    valiant    saints,    their    hope    they 
knew. 

And  mocked  the  cross  and  flame;      20 

They  climbed  the  steep  ascent  of  heaven 
Through  peril,  toil,  and  pain : 

O  God,  to  us  may  grace  be  given 
To  follow  in  their  train ! 

(1827) 


LYRICAL  AND  REFLECTIVE  POEMS 


285 


OLD   IRONSIDES 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

[When  he  was  a  law  student  at  Cambridge, 
Holmes's  indignation  was  aroused  by  a  news- 
paper paragraph  announcing  that  it  was  pro- 
posed to  destroy  the  historic  U.  S.  frigate  Con- 
stitution, now  old  and  valueless.  He  dashed  off 
these  verses,  and  the  interest  which  they  aroused 
prolonged  the  life  of  the  warship.] 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eve  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout. 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar; — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood. 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe,  lo 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave! 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep. 

And  there  should  be  her  grave;  20 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set   every  threadbare   sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 

(1830) 


THE  LAST  LEAF 

OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 

I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 
The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down. 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 


But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and   wan. 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed  20 

In  their  bloom, 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago — 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow.  30 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin. 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff. 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In   his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 
But  the  old  three-cornered  hat,  40 

And  the  breeches,  and  all  that. 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the   spring, 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now. 
At  the  old,  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

(1831) 

FOREFATHERS'   HYMN 

LEONARD  BACON 

O  God,  beneath  Thy  guiding  hand 
Our  exiled   fathers  crossed  the  sea; 
And  when  they  trod  the  wintry  strand. 
With  prayer  and  psalm  they  worshipped 
Thee. 

Thou  heard'st,  well  pleased,  the  song,  the 

prayer : 
Thy  blessing  came ;  and  still  its  power 
Shall  onward  through  the  ages  bear 
The  memory  of  that  holy  hour. 


286 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Laws,  freedom,  truth,  and  faith  in  God 
Came  with  those  exiles  o'er  the  waves ;  lo 
And  where  their  pilgrim  feet  have  trod 
The  God  they  trusted  guards  their  graves. 

And  here  Thy  Name,  O  God  of  love, 
Their  children's  children  shall  adore. 
Till  these  eternal  hills  remove. 
And  spring  adorns  the  earth  no  more. 

(1833) 

CONCORD   HYMN 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

Sung  at  the  completion  of  the  Battle  Monument, 
April   19,    1837 

[This  monument  was  erected  by  the  riverside 
at  Concord,  Massachusetts,  as  a  memorial  of 
the  Battle  of  Lexington  and  Concord,  April 
19,   1775.] 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood. 
And    fired   the    shot    heard    round    the 
world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward 
creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 
We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone,  10 

That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem. 
When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


(1837) 


A   PSALM   OF  LIFE 


What  the  Heart  of  the  Young  Man  Said 
to  the  Psalmist 

HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

[The    opening    lines    allude    to    the    90th    Psalm, 
especially  verse  5;  line  7  to  Genesis  3:19.] 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers. 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! — 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 


10 


Life  is  real!     Life  is  earnest! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 
"Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  rcturnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  mufiled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 


Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing. 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

(1838) 


THE  HUMBLE-BEE 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

Burly,   dozing  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-oflF  heats  through  seas  to  seek; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone. 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer. 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  1 


20 


30 


10 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


287 


Sailor  of  the  atmosphere; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean^  of  June ; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days,        20 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance. 

And  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes. 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace  30 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours. 
Long  days,   and   solid  banks  of  flowers; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In   Indian  wildernesses   found ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure. 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean  40 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen ; 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple-sap  and  daffodils, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky, 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey. 

Scented  fern,  and  agrimony. 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 

And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste,  50 

All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer. 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet. 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care. 
Leave  the  chaff,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep;  60 

Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

(1839) 

I  Epicurean.     Follower    of    the    philosophy    ot 
pleasure-seeking. 


THE  RHODORA 

On  Being  Asked,  Whence  is  the  Flower  f 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  soli- 
tudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp 

nook. 
To   please    the    desert    and   the    sluggish 

brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool. 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty 

gay; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes 

to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens   his 

array. 
Rhodora!  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and 

sky,  10 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made 

for   seeing. 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being: 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew : 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The    self -same    Power   that   brought    me 

there  brought  you. 

(1839) 

THE   SNOW-STORM 
RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky. 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,   driving  o'er  the 

fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the 

heaven. 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's 

end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  cou- 
rier's feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  house- 
mates sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north  wind's  masonry.      lO 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected 
roof 


288 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or 

door. 
Speeding,    the    myriad-handed,    his    wild 

work 
So   fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares   he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On    coop    or    kennel    he    hangs    Parian^^ 

wreaths ; 
A    swan-like    form    invests    the    hidden 

thorn ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to 

wall,  20 

Maugre^  the  farmer's  sighs ;  and  at  the 

gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and 

the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not. 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished 

Art 
To   mimic   in    slow   structures,    stone   by 

stone. 
Built  in   an   age,  the  mad  wind's   night- 
work. 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

(1841) 

MAIDENHOOD 
HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

Maiden !  with  the  meek  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun. 
Golden  tresses,   wreathed   in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet. 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 


Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance. 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  the  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian? 

X  Parian.     Of  white  Parian  marble. 
2  Maugre.     In  spite  of. 


Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 

As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye,  20 

Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar? 

Oh,  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Life  hath  quicksands, — Life  hath  snares! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares ! 


Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 


30 


Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered ; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth,  40 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal. 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart. 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 

(1841) 


THE  YEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING 


no  ROBERT    BROWNING 

[From  the  drama,  Pippa  Passes] 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn : 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 

(1841) 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


289 


MARCHING  ALONG 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[Browning  calls  this  a  "Cavalier  Tune,"  that 
is,  a  song  supposed  to  be  sung  by  the  Royalists 
in  the  Civil  Wars  of  1642-49.  Line  2  refers  to 
the  Puritan  fashion  of  wearing  the  hair  short. 
Pym^  Hampden,  Hazelrig,  and  Fiennes  were 
Parliamentary  leaders;  Prince  Rupert,  a  dash- 
ing cavalry    leader,   was  the   king's   nephew.] 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding      the     crop-headed      Parliament 

swing: 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest 

folk  droop. 
Marched   them   along,   fifty-score   strong, 
Great-hearted     gentlemen,     singing     this 

song. 

God   for  King  Charles!     Pym  and   such 
carles^ 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  trea- 
sonous paries  !2 

Cavaliers,  up!     Lips   from  the  cup. 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor 
sup  10 

Till  you're — 
Chorus. — Marching    along,    fifty-score 

strong. 
Great-hearted    gentlemen,    singing    this 
song. 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies*  knell. 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry 

as  well ! 
England,  good  cheer!     Rupert  is  near! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here. 
Chorus. — Marching    along,     fifty-score 

strong. 
Great-hearted    gentlemen,    singing    this 
song? 

I  carles.     Fellows, 
a  paries.     Conspiring. 


Then,  God  for  King  Charles!     Pym  and 

his  snarls  20 

To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent 

carles ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the 

fight. 
Chorus. — March    we   along,    fifty-score 

strong, 
Great-hearted    gentlemen,    singing    this 

song! 

(1842) 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[Reminiscent,  like  In  Memoriam,  of  the  death 
of  Tennyson's  friend,  Hallam;  see  the  note  on 
page  308.] 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O,  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ;  10 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

(1842) 


290  POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH   RACE 

LOCKSLEY   HALL 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[This  is  a  dramatic  monologue,  in  no  way  representing  the  poet's  personality,  though  it  does 
represent  his  interest  in  current  questions,  such  as  the  new  science  (see  lines  12,  186),  the  social 
problem  (135-6),  etc.  Tennyson  himself  said  that  "the  whole  poem  represents  young  life,  its  good 
side,  its  deficiencies,  its  yearning."  For  the  reader's  convenience  it  is  here  divided  into  seven 
sections — not  marked  by  Tennyson — which  represent  distinct  moments  or  stages  in  the  thought  of 
the  supposed  speaker.  In  1885  appeared  a  sequel,  called  "Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,"  de- 
picting the  same  character  in  his  old  age;  from  this  it  may  be  inferred  that  the  speaker  is  about 
twenty  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  the  present  poem.  Of  special  interest  in  the  present  era  is  the 
remarkable  prophecy  of  the  use  of  aviation  in  war,  found  in  lines  123-4.] 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  west. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade. 

Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fireflies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid.  lO 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed;  , 

When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed; 

When  I  dipped  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be. — 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast; 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 

In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove; 

In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love.  20 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong;" 

Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?"  weeping,  "I  have  loved  thee  long."  30 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS  291 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted !     O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more ! 

0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !    O  the  barren,  barren  shore  !  40 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung. 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?    having  known  me — to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine! 

Yet  it  shall  be;  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day. 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is;  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown. 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force. 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse.  50 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy;  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him,  it  is  thy  duty;  kiss  him,  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth ! 

Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth !  6o 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd^  forehead  of  the  fool ! 

Well — 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster! — Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved — 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit? 

1  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery2  home. 
I  straiten'd.    Narrow.  2  rookery.     Flock  of  rooks  (crows). 


292         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind? 

Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind?  70 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd ;  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move ; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly ;  love  is  love  for  evermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn 'd  of  devils!  this  is  truth  the  poet^  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof. 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall. 

Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall.  80 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never,"  whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow;  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine,  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down ;  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast.  90 

O.  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his;  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part. 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

"They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she  herself  was  not  exempt — 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd"— Perish  in  thy  sel f -contempt ! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy!  wherefore  should  I  care? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 

Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys.  100 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy;  what  is  that  which  I  should  do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels. 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

I  the  pott.     Dante. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS  293 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?     I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Mother-Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife, 

When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life;  IIO 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn. 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new ; 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do. 

For  I  dipped  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see. 

Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be;  120 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilot  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe. 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapped  in  universal  law.  130 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry. 

Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint. 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly  creeping  on  from  point  to  point; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs. 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever  like  a  boy's?  140 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore. 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast. 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn. 


294         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness !  woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a  shallower  brain.  150 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat, 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle^  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd ; — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies. 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise.  160 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag. 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy- fruited  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing  space; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun ;  170 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks. 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy !  but  I  know  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains. 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon!^  180 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  forward  let  us  range. 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change.^ 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day; 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother-Age, — for  mine  I  knew  not, — help  me  as  when  life  begun; 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  sun. 

z  Mahralta-baltle.  The  home  of  the  Mahrattas  includes  a  large  part  of  Western  and  Central 
India,   which  had  come  under  British  control   in  Tennyson's  generation. 

3  Joshua's  moon.     See  Joshua  10:13. 

3  Tennyson  explained  that  this  line  was  suggested  to  him  by  the  new  art  of  railway  locomotion, 
and  that  at  the  time  he  wrote  it  he  supposed  that  the  track-rails  were  grooved. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


295 


O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt,^ 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 

(1842) 


190 


ULYSSES 
ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[The  Odyssey,  the  chief  ancient  poem  treat- 
ing of  Ulvsses,  had  ended  with  the  hero's  re- 
turn to  Ithaca,  his  home,  after  his  wanderings; 
but  further  wanderings  had  been  foretold  for 
his  last  years.  Tennyson  also  took  a  hint  from 
Dante,  who  represented  the  spirit  of  Ulysses  as 
saying,  "Neither  fondness  for  my  son,  nor  piety 
for  my  old  father,  nor  the  due  love  that  should 
have  made  Penelope  glad,  could  overcome  within 
me  the  ardor  that  I  had  to  gain  experience  of 
the    world."] 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That    hoard,    and    sleep,    and    feed,    and 

know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.     All  times  I   have  en- 

joy'd 
Greatly,  have  sufFer'd  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and 

when  9 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades^ 
Vex'd  the  dim  sea.  I  am  become  a  name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known, — cities  of 

men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments, 
Myself   not   least,   but   honor'd   of   them 

all,— 
And    drunk    delight    of    battle    with    my 

peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

1  holt.     Woodland. 

2  Hyades.  A  constellation  whose  rising,  in  the 
month  of  May,  was  associated  with  the  coming 
of  the  rainy  season. 


I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untravel'd  world  whose  mar- 
gin fades  20 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life!     Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains;  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things :  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire  30 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond    the    utmost     bound    of    human 
thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle, — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most    blameless    is    he,    centred    in    the 

sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail    40 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I 
mine. 
There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her 
sail; 
There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.     My 

mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me, — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and   the  sunshine,   and  op- 
posed 
Free  hearts,   free   foreheads, — you  and  I 
are  old;  49 


296 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil. 
Death  closes  all;  but  something  ere  the 

end, 
Some   work  of   noble   note,   may   yet   be 

done, 
Not    unbecoming   men    that    strove    with 

gods. 
The    lights    begin    to   twinkle    from    the 

Tocks ; 
The    long    day    wanes;    the    slow    moon 

climbs ;  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come, 

my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding   furrows ;   for  my  purpose 

holds  59 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It   may  be   that  the   gulfs   will  wash  us 

down ; 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles,^ 
And    see    the   great   Achilles,    whom    we 

knew, 
Tho'   much  is   taken,  much  abides;   and 

the' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in 

old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven,  that  which  we 

are,  we  are, — 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong 

in  will  69 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

(1842) 


SIR  GALAHAD 

ALFRED  TENNYSON 

[Sir  Galahad,  alone  of  Arthur's  kniehts  of 
the  Round  Table,  was  perfectly  pure  of  heart, 
and  so  won  the  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail,  the 
cup  of  the  Last  Supper.  Tennyson  represents 
in  him  that  spirit  01  mystical  devotion,  a  com- 
bination of  religion  and  knightly  chivalry,  which 
he  later  portrayed  more  fully  in  the  Idylls  of 
the  King.] 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel ; 

I  Happy  Isles.     The  Greek  paradise. 


They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 
And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands,^  lo 

Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 
That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall.* 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My    knees    are    bow'd    in    crypt'    and 
shrine; 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine.  20 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims. 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns. 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there ;    30 
The  stalls*  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide. 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth. 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean. 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings. 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on   lonely   mountain-meres^ 

I  find  a  magic  bark. 
I  leap  on  board ;  no  helmsman  steers ; 

I  float  till  all  is  dark.  40 

A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  Holy  Grail ; 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping^  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision !  blood  of  God ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars. 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 
Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go,  50 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 
The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 

The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads,^ 
And,   ringing,   springs    from   brand   and 
mail; 

But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

1  stands.     Halts. 

2  thrall.     Captivity. 

3  crypt.     Convent  cell. 

4  stalls.     Seats  (in  the  chancel). 

5  meres.     Lakes. 

6  sleeping.     Expanded  but  motionless. 

7  leads.     Roofing. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


297 


And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields.  60 

A  maiden^  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear,  70 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on !  the  prize  is  near."  80 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
AU-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  Holy  Grail. 

(1842) 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   SHIRT 
THOMAS    HOOD 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sits  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt." 

"Work !  work  !   work ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof !       10 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It's  oh !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with   the   barbarous   Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save. 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

I  maiden.     Untried  or  unsullied. 


"Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim; 
Work— work — work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim.         20 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 

"Oh,  men,  with  sisters  dear! 

Oh,  men,  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,  30 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death? 

That  phantom  of  grisly  hone, 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
Oh,  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear. 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap!  40 

"Work — work — work ! 

My  labor  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there. 

"Work — work — work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime,  50 

Work — work — work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  be- 
numbed 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"Work — work — work. 

In  the  dull  December  tight, 
And  work — work — work. 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright, 
While  underneath  the  eaves  61 

The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"Oh!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet, 

With  the  sky  above  my  head. 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet; 


298 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal. 


70 


"Oh,  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A  respite  however  brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!"  80 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
(Would    that    its    tone    could    reach    the 
rich!) 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt." 

(1843) 


THE  CRY   OF  THE  CHILDREN 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

[This  poem  was  inspired  by  a  report  lately 
made  by  Richard  H.  Home  on  the  employment 
of  children  in  English  mines  and  factories. 
Mrs.  Browning  mentioned  this,  in  particular,  as 
her  authority  for  the  superstition  referred  to 
in  lines    113-116.] 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my 
brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years? 
They    are    leaning    their    young     heads 
against  their  mothers. 
And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The    young    lambs    are    bleating    in    the 
meadows. 
The   young   birds    are   chirping   in   the 
nest. 
The  young   fawns   are   playing  with   the 
shadows. 
The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward 
the  west — 
But   the   young,    young   children,    O    my 
brothers. 
They  are  weeping  bitterly!  10 

They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the 
others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 


Do  you   question  the  young   children   in 
the  sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago; 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest. 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost.      20 
But   the    young,   young   children,    O    my 
brothers. 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their 
mothers. 

In  our  happy  Fatherland? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces. 
And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see. 
For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws  and 
presses 
Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy. 
"Your    old    earth,"    they    say,    "is    very 
dreary ; 
Our  young   feet,"  they   say,   "are  very 
weak !  30 

Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek. 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 
children ; 
For  the  outside  earth  is  cold; 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our 
bewildering. 
And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

"True,"  say  the  children,  "it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time; 
Little  Alice  died  last  year — her  grave  is 
shapen 
Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime.*  40 

We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take 
her: 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close 
clay! 
From   the   sleep   wherein   she   lieth   none 
will  wake  her. 
Crying,  'Get  up,  little  Alice!  it  is  day.' 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and 
shower, 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 
cries ; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should 
not  know  her. 
For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in 
her  eyes : 
And  merry  go  her  moments,   lulled  and 
stilled  in 

I  rime.     Frost. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


299 


The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime !  So 

It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  chil- 
dren, 
"That  we  die  before  our  time." 

Alas,  alas,  the  children !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have; 
They  are   binding   up  their  hearts   away 
from  breaking. 
With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from 
the  city, — 
Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes 
do; 
Pluck  you  handfuls  of  the  meadow  cow- 
slips pretty, 
Laugh   aloud,   to   feel   your   fingers   let 
them  through  I  60 

But  they  answer,  "Are  your  cowslips  of 
the  meadows 
Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal- 
shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine! 

"For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap ; 
If  we  cared   for  any  meadows,   it  were 
merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping. 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go ;  70 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  droop- 
ing, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale 
as  snow ; 
For  all  day  we  drag  our  burden  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground — 
Or  all  day  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

"For    all    day    the    wheels    are    droning, 
turning — 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces — 
Till    our    hearts    turn — our    heads,    with 
pulses  burning. 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places :       80 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank 
and  reeling, 
Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown 
the  wall. 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the 
ceiling. 
All   are   turning,   all   the   day,   and   we 
with  all. 
And  all  day  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 
And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 


'O   ye   wheels'    (breaking  out   in   a   mad 
moaning), 
'Stop  !   be  silent  for  to-day  !'  " 

Aye !  be  silent !    Let  them  hear  each  other 
breathing 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth !  90 

Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a 
fresh  wreathing 
Of  their  tender  human  youth! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  mo- 
tion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  re- 
veals : 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against 
the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O 
wheels ! — 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark;i 
And  the   children's   souls,   which   God   is 
calling  sunward. 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark.  100 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my 
brothers, 
To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray; 
So  the  blessed  One,  who  blesseth  all  the 
others, 
Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "Who  is  God  that  He  should 
hear  us. 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is 
stirred? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures 
near  us 
Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a 
word. 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their 
resounding) 
Strangers  speaking  at  the  door:         no 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round 
Him, 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more? 

"Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  re- 
member. 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  cham- 
ber, 
We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  know   no   other   words,   except   'Our 
Father,' 
And  we  think  that,   in  some  pause  of 
angels'  song, 
God    may   pluck   them,    with    the    silence 
sweet  to  gather, 
I  mark.     Normal  quality. 


300 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  hold  both  within  His  right  hand, 
which  is  strong.  120 

'Our  Father!'    If  He  heard  us,  He  would 
surely 
(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,    smiling   down   the    steep   world 
very  purely, 
'Come  and  rest  with  Me,  my  child.' 


"But,    no!"    say    the    children,    weeping 
faster, 
"He  is  speechless  as  a  stone; 
And  they   tell   us,   of   His   image   is   the 
master 
Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to!"  say  the  children,  — "up  in  Heaven 
Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all 
we  find.  130 

Do  not  mock  us;  grief  has  made  us  un- 
believing— 
We  look  up   for  God,   but  tears  have 
made  us  blind." 
Do   you   hear  the  children  weeping   and 
disproving, 
O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach? 
For    God's    possible    is    taught    by    His 
world's  loving, 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 


And  well  may  the  children  weep  before 
you! 
They  are  weary  ere  they  run ; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor 
the  glory 
Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun,         140 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its 
wisdom ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its 
calm; 
Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christ- 
dom. 
Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the 
palm, — 


Are  worn,  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretriev- 
ingly 
The    harvest    of    its    memories    cannot 
reap, — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heav- 
enly. 
Let  them  weep!  let  them  weep! 

They  look  up,  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces, 
And  their  look  is  dread  to  see,  150 

For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high 
places,! 
With  eyes  turned  on  Deity! — 
"How  long,"  they  say,  "hov/  long,  O  cruel 
nation. 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a 
child's  heart. — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpi- 
tation. 
And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid 
the  mart? 
Our    blood    splashes    upward,    O    gold- 
heaper. 
And  your  purple  shows  your  path! 
But  the  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses 
deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath."   160 

(1844) 

RONDEAU 

LEIGH    HUNT 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met,        ^ 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  to  fill  your  list,  put  that  in: 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad. 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed 
me. 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kissed  me. 

(1844) 

I  See  Mailtmv  18:10. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS  301 

THE    PRESENT    CRISIS 

JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 

[This  poem  was  written  with  special  reference  to  the  question  of  the  annexation  of  Texas,  but 
concerns  the  cause  of  anti-slavery  generally,  and  indeed  that  of  reform  in  any  age.  In  the  next 
to  the  last  stanza  Lowell  refers  to  the  fact  that  slavery  was  defended  by  arguments  derived  from 
the  beliefs  and  deeds  of  our  forefathers,  who  nevertheless  were  progressives  in  their  day. — The 
poem  is  here  abbreviated  by  the  omission  of  four  stanzas.] 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad  earth's  aching  breast 

Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east  to  west, 

And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within  him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 

Of  a  century  bursts  fulI-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem  of  Time. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears  along. 

Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of  right  or  wrong; 

Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  Humanity's  vast  frame 

Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the  gush  of  joy  or  shame ; — 

In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have  equal  claim.  10 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the  moment  to  decide, 

In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil  side ; 

Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each  the  bloom  or  blight, 

Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon  the  right. 

And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and  that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on  whose  party  thou  shalt  stand. 

Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shakes  the  dust  against  our  land? 

Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  'tis  Truth  alone  is  strong, 

And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see  around  her  throng 

Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her  from  all  wrong.  20 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger;  history's  pages  but  record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and  the  Word; 
Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold.  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne, — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim  unknown, 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  his  own. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and  what  is  great, 

Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm  of  fate, 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular;  amid  the  market's  din, 

List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave*  within, — 

"They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make  compromise  with  sin."  30 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we  share  her  wretched  crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  'tis  prosperous  to  be  just; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward  stands  aside. 
Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified. 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they  had  denied. 

Count  me  o'er  earth's  chosen  heroes, — they  were  souls  that  stood  alone, 
While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled  the  contumelious  stone, 
Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw  the  golden  beam  incline 
To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by  their  faith  divine, 

By  one  man's  plain  truth  to  manhood  and  to  God's  supreme  design.  40 

I  Delphic  cave.     The  seat  of  the  greatest  of  oracles. 


302         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics  Christ's  bleeding  feet  I  track, 

Toiling  up  new  Calvaries  ever  with  the  cross  that  turns  not  back, 

And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number  how  each  generation  learned 

One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credo'^  which  in  prophet-hearts  hath  burned 

Since  the  first  man  stood  God-conquered  with  his  face  to  heaven  upturned. 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward :  where  to-day  the  martyr  stands, 

On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in  his  hands ; 

Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the  crackling  fagots  burn, 

While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe  return 

To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's  golden  urn.  50 

'Tis  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 

Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  father's  graves. 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  light  a  crime ; — 

Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered  by  men  behind  their  time? 

Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future,  that  make  Plymouth  Rock  sublime? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart  old  iconoclasts. 

Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was  the  Past's ; 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking  that  hath  made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  tender  spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which  drove  them  across  the  sea.  60 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them ;  we  are  traitors  to  our  sires, 
Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom's  new-lit  altar-fires ; 
Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer?    Shall  we,  in  our  haste  to  slay. 
From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal  the  funeral  lamps  away 
To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the  prophets  of  to-day? 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties ;  Time  makes  ancient  good  uncouth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep  abreast  of  Truth; 

Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires !  we  ourselves  must  Pilgrims  be. 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the  desperate  winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood-rusted  key.  70 

(1844) 

I   Credo.     Creed,  faith. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


303 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD 
HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceil- 
ing, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished 
arms; 
But    from   their   silent   pipes   no   anthem 
pealing 
Startles     the     villages     with     strange 
alarms. 

Ah!  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and 
dreary, 
When    the    death-angel    touches    those 
swift  keys ! 
What  loud  lament  and  dismal  miserere'^ 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  sympho- 
nies! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus. 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan. 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone 
before  us,  ii 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On   helm   and   harness   rings   the    Saxon 
hammer, 
Through     Cimbric     forest  2     roars     the 
Norseman's  song, 
And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 
O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar 
gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  pal- 
ace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell^  with  dread- 
ful din, 
And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis* 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  ser- 
pent's skin;  20 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning 
village ; 
The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 
drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pil- 
lage; 
The    wail    of    famine    in    beleaguered 
towns ; 

1  miserere.  Prayer  for  mercy  (from  the  first 
word  of  Psalm  51,  Latin  version). 

2  Cimbric  forest.  In  the  region  of  Jutland,  an 
ancient  home  of  the  Cimbri. 

3  battle-bell.  A  bell  which  the  Florentines  of 
the  13th  century  used  to  take  with  them,  on  wheels, 
to  the  battle-field. 

4  teocallis.     Temples  (of  the  Aztecs). 


The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 
asunder, 
The     rattling    musketry,     the    clashing 
blade ; 
And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises. 

With    such    accursed     instruments     as 

these,  30 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly 

voices, 

And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world 
with  terror. 
Were    half    the    wealth    bestowed    on 
camps  and  courts, 
Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind   from 
error. 
There   were   no   need    of   arsenals    or 
forts; 

The  warrior's   name   would   be   a   name 
abhorred ! 
And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its   fore- 
head 
Would  wear  for  evermore  the  curse  of 
Cain !  40 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  gen- 
erations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow   fainter  and 
then  cease; 
And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,   sweet  vi- 
brations, 
I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ 
say,  "Peace!" 

Peace!    and   no   longer    from   its    brazen 
portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes 
the  skies ! 
But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

(1844) 

TO   THE   DANDELION 

JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  be- 
side the  way. 
Fringing  the   dusty   road   with  harmless 
gold. 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 


304 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride, 
uphold. 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'er  joyed  that 
they 
An  Eldorado^  in  the  grass  have  found. 
Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May   match   in   wealth,   thou   art   more 

dear  to  me 
Than  all   the  prouder  summer-blooms 
may  be. 

Gold    such    as    thine    ne'er    drew    the 
Spanish  prow  lO 

Through    the    primeval    hush    of    Indian 
seas, 
Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 
'Tis    the    Spring's    largess,    which    she 
scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand. 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The   offered    wealth    with    unrewarded 
eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime; 
The  eyes  thou  givest  me  21 

Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or 
time: 
Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed 
bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravish- 
ment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent. 
His    fragrant    Sybaris,^    than    I,    when 

first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles 
burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the 
grass, 
Of    meadows    where    in    sun    the    cattle 
graze. 
Where,  as  the  breezes  pass,  30 

The    gleaming    rushes    lean    a    thousand 
ways, 
Of    leaves    that    slumber    in    a    cloudy 
mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 
That   from  the   distance  sparkle  through 
Some    woodland    gap,    and    of    a    sky 

above, 
Where   one    white    cloud    like    a    stray 
lamb  doth  move. 

I  Eldorado.     Gold  country. 

a  Sybaris.     A  city  famous  for  luxury. 


My    childhood's    earliest    thoughts    are 
linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's 
song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 
And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety,  41 

Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could 
bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When   birds   and   flowers   and    I    were 
happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  Nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common 
art! 
Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart. 
Since   each    reflects    in    joy    its    scanty 
gleam  50 

Of    heaven,    and    could    some    wondrous 

secret  show. 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe. 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom 

look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

(184s) 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE 
STAIRS 

HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands    the    old-fashioned    country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  arid  beckons  with  its  hands  10 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak. 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak. 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's   fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall,  20 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


305 


Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And    seems    to    say,    at    each    chamber- 
door, — 

"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of    changeful    time,    unchanged    it    has 

stood. 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw. 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, — 
"Forever — never !  31 

Never — forever !" 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast. 
That  warning  timepiece   never  ceased, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !"  40 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There    youths     and     maidens     dreaming 

strayed ; 
O  precious  hours !     O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold. 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The    bride   came    forth   on   her   wedding 
night ;  50 

There,  in  that  silent  room  below. 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled. 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"Ah!  when  shall  they  all  meet  again?"  60 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 


And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here ! 
The  horologe^  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this   incessantly, —  70 

"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

(1845) 


HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware. 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush- 
wood sheaf 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf. 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard 
bough 

In  England — now ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the 
swallows !  10 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in 
the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the 
clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent 
spray's  edge — 

That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song 
twice  over. 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  re- 
capture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture ! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with 
hoary   dew. 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon- 
flower  !  20 

(1845) 


HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[Actually    written    on    board    a    vessel    off    the 
African  coast.] 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the 
Northwest  died  away ; 

Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reek- 
ing into  Cadiz  Bay; 

I  horologe.     Time-piece. 


306 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face 

Trafalgar  lay; 
In  the  dimmest  Northeast  distance  dawned 

Gibraltar  grand  and  gray; 
"Here   and   here   did   England   help   me: 

how  can  I  help  England?" — say, 
Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to 

God  to  praise  and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet^  rises  yonder,  silent 

over  Africa. 

(1845) 

SHAKESPEARE 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free. 

We  ask  and  ask. — Thou  smilest,  and  art 
still, 

Out-topping  knowledge.  For  the  loftiest 
hill 

That  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwell- 
ing-place. 

Spares^  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 

To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sun- 
beams know. 

Self-schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honored, 
self-secure,  10 

Didst  walk  on  earth  unguess'd  at. — Bet- 
ter so ! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure. 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs 
that  bow, 

Find  their  sole  voice  in  that  victorious 
brow. 

(1849) 

ANNABEL  LEE 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may 
know 
By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other 
thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more 
than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee;  10 

1  Jove's  planet.     Jupiter. 

2  Spares.     Allows,  shows. 


With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of 
heaven 
Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me. 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  20 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me ; 
Yes,    that    was   the   reason    (as    all   men 
know. 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by 
night, 
Chilling  and  killing  tny  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than 
the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above. 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea,  31 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bring- 
ing me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I   feel  the 
bright  eyes 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by 

the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and 
my  bride, 
In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea,      40 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

(1849) 

THE  FAIRIES 

WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 
,    And  white  owl's  feather! 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


307 


Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some   make  their  home, —  10 

They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old   King  sits; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits.  20 

With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses;^ 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights. 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long;  30 

When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back. 

Between  the  night  and  morrow ; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  here  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes. 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes.  40 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare. 
They  have   planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is   any   man   so   daring 

As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen,  50 

We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

(1850) 

I  On  opposite  sides  of   Donegal  Bay,    northern 
Ireland;  these  are  Irish  fairies. 


SONG 

THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES 

Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crow, 

The  old  crow  of  Cairo, 
He  sat  in  the  shower,  and  let  it  flow 
Under  his  tail  and  over  his  crest, 
And  through  every   feather 
Leaked  the  wet  weather; 
And  the  bough  swung  under  his  nest; 
For  his  beak  it  was  heavy  with  marrow. 
Is  that  the  wind  dying?  O  no; 
It's  only  two  devils,  that  blow       10 
Through  a  murderer's  bones,  to  and 
fro. 
In  the  ghosts'  moonshine. 

Ho!   Eve,  my  gray  carrion  wife, 
When  we  have  supped  on  kings'  mar- 
row, 
Where   shall  we  drink  and  make  merry 
our  life? 
Our  nest  it  is  Queen  Cleopatra's  skull, 
'Tis  cloven  and  cracked, 
And  battered  and  hacked. 
But  with  tears  of  blue  eyes  it  is  full; 
Let  us  drink,  then,  my  raven  of  Cairo. 
Is  that  the  wind  dying?    O  no;        21 
It's  only  two  devils,  that  blow 
Through  a  murderer^s  bones,  to  and 
fro. 
In  the  ghosts'  moonshine. 
(1850) 

SWEET   AND   LOW 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea. 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me : 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ;  10 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon ; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

(1850) 


308 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


THE   SPLENDOR  FALLS 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

["This  song,"  said  Tennyson,  "was  written 
after  hearing  the  echoes  at  Killarney  in  1848. 
When  I  was  there  I  heard  a  bugle  blown  beneath 
the   'Eagle's   Nest,'    and   eight   distinct   echoes."] 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,   bugle,   blow,    set   the   wild   echoes 

flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,   dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

O,  hark,  O,  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 

O,  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reply- 
ing, ^  II 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 
They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow   for  ever  and   for  ever. 

Blow,   bugle,   blow,   set   the   wild   echoes 

flying,  J  .         . 

And  answer,   echoes,   answer,    dymg,   dy- 
ing,  dying. 

(i8so) 

IN   MEMORIAM   A.  H.  H. 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[The  full  title  would  be  "In  Memory  of 
Arthur  Henry  Hallam,"  Tennyson's  college 
friend  and  betrothed  brother-in-law,  who  died 
in  1833.  The  whole  work  consists  of  131  lyrics, 
with  prologue  and  epilogue,  embodying  not 
merely  the  expression  of  the  poet's  love  and 
grief  for  his  friend,  but  of  the  whole  problem 
of  the  significance  of  human  life,  sorrow,  and 
death.  The  first  of  the  following  selections  con- 
sists of  the  opening  stanzas  of  the  prologue, 
dealing  with  the  contrast  between  knowledge 
and  faith — a  favorite  theme  of  Tennyson's.  The 
second  is  a  complete  lyric  on  the  same  theme. 
The  third  is  the  famous  lyric  for  New  Year  s 
Eve,  expressing  the  poet's  hope  for  the  future 
of  the  race.  The  fourth  is  a  notable  example 
of  Tennyson's  interest  in  the  new  science;  in 
it  he  interprets  spirituallj;  the  teachings  of 
geology  and  biology  respecting  the  development 
of   the   earth   and    of   man.] 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 


Thine  are  these  orbs^  of  light  and  shade; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest  Death;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust;    " 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why,  lo 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him:  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine. 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood  thou: 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be : 
They  are  but  broken  lights^  of  thee. 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they.  20 

We  have  but  faith :  we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness:  let  it  grow. 


O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will. 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire       10 
Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last— far  off— at  last,  to  all. 

And   every   winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream ;  but  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night; 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light. 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry.  20 

1  orbs.     The  halves  of  the  earth  lying  in  sun- 
light and  shadow. 

2  broken  lights.     The  partial  prismatic  rays,   as 
compared  with  the  full  white  ones. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


309 


Ring  out.  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more;  lo 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor; 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in.  20 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of   foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and   free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand;  30 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to 
clime, 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself   in   higher  place, 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more;^ 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,^  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore,  20 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipp'd  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.    Arise  and  Hy 
The  reeling  faun,^  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

(1850) 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[Tennyson  published  this  poem  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral  01  the  "Iron  Duke,"  November  18, 
1852.  It  will  be  noticed  that  the  ode  follows 
the  course  of  the  funeral  procession  from  the 
moment  of  its  starting  from  Somerset  House  to 
that  of  the  burial  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  At 
the  opening  of  the  6th  strophe,  Lord  Nelson,  al- 
ready buried  in  St.  Paul's,  is  supposed  to  speak 
as  the  procession  enters  the  building,  and  to  be 
answered  by  the  poet,  with  a  recapitulation  of 
Wellington's  militar-y  glories.  Lines  160-169  are 
a  characteristic  expression  of  Tennyson's  po- 
litical views — distrustful  of  both  "crowns"  and 
"crowds."] 


Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began. 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms,  10 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 


1 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation; 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To   the    noise   of   the    mourning   of    a 
mighty  nation ; 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall. 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall. 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

I  If  he  develop,  as  the  physical  creation  has, 
always  in  the  direction  of  something  higher. 

3  Or  if  he  make  of  his  sufferings  a  crown  of 
glory,  still  advancing. 

3  faun.  A  creature  half  bestial,  half  human, — 
here  standing  for  man  in  a  low  state  of  moral 
development. 


310 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore  ? 
Here,     in     streaming     London's     central 

roar, 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for,  lo 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 


Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 

And    let    the    sorrowing   crowd    about    it 

grow. 
And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow ; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


IV 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last,  19 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute! 
Mourn    for    the    man    of    long-enduring 

blood. 
The    statesman-warrior,    moderate,    reso- 
lute. 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war,  30 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 
O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fallen  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew ! 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore.  40 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World-victor's^  victor  will  be 
seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 

I   World-victor's.     Napoleon's. 


Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render   thanks   to   the   Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river,  50 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd, 

And    a    deeper    knell    in    the    heart    be 

knoll'd ; 
And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 

roU'd  60 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 
And    the    volleying    cannon    thunder    his 

loss ; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom : 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought. 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame ; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain 

taught 
The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim  70 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name. 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long. 
To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame. 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song! 


VI 

"Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor*d 
guest,  80 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier 
and  with  priest. 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking 
on   my   rest?" — 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  fa- 
mous man. 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums. 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea.  90 

His  foes  were  thine;  he  kept  us  free; 

O,  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


311 


Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 

For   this   is   England's   greatest   son, 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  g^n ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assayed 

Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won ;      loo 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon^  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay. 

Whence  he  issued   forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms,     no 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In   anger,   wheel'd  on   Europe-shadowing 

wings,  120 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 
Till    one    that    sought    but    Duty's    iron 

crown 
On  that  loud  Sabbath^    shook  the  spoiler 

down; 
A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 
Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square. 
Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves 

away; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 
Thro*  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 
And    down   we   swept   and   charged   and 

overthrew.  130 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there 
What  long-enduring  hearts   could   do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true. 
And   pure   as    he    from   taint   of   craven 

guile, 
O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

1  Assaye.  A  battle  in  India,  September,  1803, 
when  Wellington  routed  a  native  army  of  40,000 
with  7,000  men, 

2  In  the  fall  oi  1810  Wellington  retired  to  Lisbon, 
which  was  protected  by  three  lines  of  fortifications, 
and  thence  gradually  pushed  out  against  the 
French  until  Napoleon's  capitulation  of  18 14. 

3  Sabbath.  June  18,  1815,  the  day  of  the 
Battle  of  Waterloo. 


If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine. 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all. 
Be  glad,   because   his  bones   are   laid   by 
thine!  141 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice. 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game. 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him. 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name.  150 


A  people's  voice !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'    all    men   else    their   nobler   dreams 

forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 

powers. 
Thank    Him    who    isled    us    here,    and 

roughly  set 
His  Briton   in  blown  seas  and  storming 

showers. 
We  have  a  voice  with  which  to  pay  the 

debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  re- 
gret 
To    those    great    men    who    fought,    and 

kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  con- 
trol! 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the 

soul  i6o 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save   the  one  true   seed  of   freedom 

sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne. 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

springs 
Our    loyal    passion    for    our    temperate 

kings ! 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust. 
And  drill  the  raw  world   for  the  march 

of  mind. 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts;     171 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your   cannons    moulder   on   the   seaward 

wall; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 
For  ever  silent;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent;  yet  remember  all 


312 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  man  who 

spoke ; 
Who  never  sold   the  truth  to   serve   the 

hour, 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power ; 
Who   let    the    turbid    streams    of    rumor 

flow  i8i 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 

low; 
Whose   life    was   work,   whose   language 

rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe; 
Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  re- 
buke 
All  great   self-seekers  trampling  on  the 

right. 
Truth-teller   was    our    England's    Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light  190 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


VIII 

Lo!  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands. 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars. 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state.      200 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  burst- 
ing 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  out-redden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory. 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands. 
On    with   toil    of    heart    and    knees    and 
hands,  212 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has 

won 
His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd. 
Shall    find    the    toppling    crags    of    Duty 

scaled 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 
Such  was  he:  his  work  is  done. 


But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure 
Let  his  great  example  stand  220 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure; 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory. 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved 

from  shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame. 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name.  231 


IX 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see. 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung. 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one^  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 

brain 
Once    the    weight    and    fate    of    Europe 

hung.  240 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain ! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere; 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane:  250 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore  _    260 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will, 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 

roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours. 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 

trust. 
I  OTie.     The  Queen. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


313 


Hush,    the    Dead    March    wails    in    the 

people's  ears; 
The   dark   crowd   moves,    and   there   are 

sobs  and  tears; 
The  black  earth  yawns;  the  mortal  dis- 
appears ; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust;  270 

He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 
Gone,  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state. 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any   wreath   that   man   can   weave 

him. 
Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him ;    280 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him! 

(1852) 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be. 
At    this    vessel's    prow    I    stand,    which 

bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 
O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 
"Ye   who    from    my   childhood    up    have 

calm'd  me, 
Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end! 

"Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "ye  stars,  ye 
waters,  9 

On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you. 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you!" 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault 
of  heaven, 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 

In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  an- 
swer: 

"Wouldst  thou  he  as  these  are?  Live  as 
they. 

"Unaflfrighted  by  the  silence  round 
them, 

Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 

These  demand  not  that  the  things  with- 
out them 

Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy.  20 


"And   with   joy   the   stars   perform   their 

shining. 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver'd  roll; 
For  self -poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with 

noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregard- 
ful 

In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 

In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pour- 
ing. 

These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O    air-born    voice!    long    since,    severely 

clear, 
A   cry   like  thine   in   mine  own  heart   I 

hear :  30 

"Resolve  to  be   thyself;   and  know   that 

he 
Who  finds  himself  loses  his  misery!" 

(1852) 

ODE  TO  THE  NORTH-EAST  WIND 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

Welcome,  wild  North-easter! 

Shame  it  is  to  see 
Odes  to  every  zephyr; 

Ne'er  a  verse  to  thee. 
Welcome,  black  North-easter! 

O'er  the  German  foam; 
O'er  the  Danish  moorlands, 

From  thy  frozen  home. 
Tired  we  are  of  summer. 

Tired  of  gaudy  glare,  10 

Showers  soft  and  steaming, 

Hot  and  breathless  air. 
Tired  of  listless  dreaming, 

Through  the  lazy  day : 
Jovial  wind  of  winter 

Turn  us  out  to  play ! 
Sweep  the  golden  reed-beds; 

Crisp  the  lazy  dyke; 
Hunger  into  madness 

Every  plunging  pike.  20 

Fill  the  lake  with  wild-fowl; 

Fill  the  marsh  with  snipe; 
While  on  dreary  moorlands 

Lonely  curlews  pipe. 
Through  the  black  fir-forest 

Thunder  harsh  and  dry. 
Shattering  down  the  snow-flakes 

Off  the  curdled  sky. 


314 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Hark!  the  brave  North-easter! 

Breast-high  lies  the  scent,  30 

On  by  holt^  and  headland,  , 

Over  heath  and  bent.^ 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings,      ' 

Through  the  sleet  and  snow. 
Who  can  over-ride  you? 

Let  the  horses  go  I 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings, 

Down  the  roaring  blast; 
You  shall  see  a  fox  die 

Ere  an  hour  be  past.  40 

Go !  and  rest  to-morrow, 

Hunting  in  your  dreams, 
While  our  skates  are  ringing 

O'er  the  frozen  streams. 
Let  the  luscious  South-wind 

Breathe  in  lovers'  sighs, 
While  the  lazy  gallants 

Bask  in  ladies'  eyes. 
What  does  he  but  soften 

Heart  alike  and  pen?  So 

'Tis  the  hard  gray  weather 

Breeds  hard  English  men. 
What's  the  soft  South-wester? 

'Tis  the  ladies'  breeze, 
Bringing  home  their  true-loves 

Out  of  all  the  seas : 
But  the  black  North-easter, 

Through  the   snowstorm  hurled, 
Drives  our  English  hearts  of  oak 

Seaward  round  the  world.  60 

Come,  as  came  our  fathers, 

Heralded  by  thee, 
Conquering  from  the  eastward, 

Lords  by  land  and  sea. 
Come;   and  strong  within  us 

Stir  the  Vikings'  blood; 
Bracing  brain  and  sinew; 

Blow,  thou  wind  of  God! 

(1854) 

COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD 

ALFRED    TENNYSON 

[This  famous  love-lyric  represents  a  simple 
scene  in  the  long  poem  called  Maud.  The 
speaker  is  Maud's  plighted  lover,  but  is  not  re- 
ceived at  the  manor-house  where  she  lives;  on 
the  night  of  a  great  ball_  given  _  there  bv  her 
brother  he  must  wait  outside  while  she  dances 
with  the  young  lord  (line  29)  who  is  wooing 
her,_  but  when  the  ball  is  over  she  has  promised 
to  join    him   in   the   garden.] 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

I  holt.     Woodland.  2  bent.  Hillside. 


And    the    woodbine    spices    are    wafted 
abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high. 

Beginning  to   faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky,  10 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All    night    has    the    casement    jessamine 
stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "There  is  but  one, 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay.  20 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those. 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine?        30 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
"For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood, 
As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  Hall; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs  40 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 
As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


315 


But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for 
your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me;  50 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen    rose    of    the    rosebud    garden    of 
girls. 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate,  60 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate. 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is 
near ;" 

And    the    white    rose    weeps,    "She    is 
late;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ;         70 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead, — 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

(1855) 


EVELYN   HOPE 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She   plucked   that   piece   of    geranium- 
flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's 
chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my 
name;  10 

It  was  not  her  time  to  love;   beside. 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 


Duties  enough  and  little  cares. 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir. 
Till    God's    hand    beckoned    unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 
Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope. 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew —  20 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so 
wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 

We    were    fellow    mortals,    naught   be- 
side? 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love : 

I   claim   you    still,    for   my    own   love's 
sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet. 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a 
few :  30 

Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 
When,  "Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant"   (I 
shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 
And    your    mouth    of    your    own    gera- 
nium's red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine,^ 
In  the  new  life  come^  in  the  old  one's 
stead.  40 

"I   have  lived"    (I   shall   say)    "so   much 
since  then. 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 
Yet    one   thing,    one,    in    my    soul's    full 
scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see!" 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold  \^ 

There   was   place   and   to   spare    for   the 

frank  young  smile,  51 

I  in  fine.     Finally, 
a  come.     Which  has  come. 

3   (For    the    grammatical    meaning,    omit    the 
exclamation  point  at  the  end  of  the  preceding  line.) 


316 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And    the    red    young    mouth,    and    the 
hair's  young  gold. 
So,   hush, — I    will   give   you    this   leaf   to 
keep: 
See,    I    shut    it    inside    the    sweet    cold 
hand ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep ! 
You    will    wake,    and    remember,    and 
understand. 

(1855) 

THE   PATRIOT 
An  Old  Story 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[This  monologue  does  not  refer  to  any  one 
historic  person  or  situation,  but  to  a  typical 
imaginary  occurrence  such  as  has  often  made 
the  heroes  of  one  day  the  martyrs  of  the  next.] 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way. 
With    myrtle    mixed   in    my   path    like 
mad : 
The    house-roofs    seemed    to    heave    and 
sway. 
The    church-spires    flamed,    such    flags 
they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 
The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd 
and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "Good  folk,  mere  noise  re- 
pels— 
But   give    me   your    sun    from   yonder 
skies !" 
They    had    answered,    "And    afterward, 
what  else?"  10 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep ! 

Naught   man   could   do,   have   I   left  un- 
done: 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set; 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow. 
At  the  Shambles*  Gate — or,  better  yet, 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow.         20 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind; 

And   I   think,  by   the   feel,   my   forehead 
bleeds, 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind. 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 


Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go ! 
In  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down 
dead. 
"Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 
Me?" — God   might   question ;i    now    in- 
stead, 
'T  is  God  shall  repay :  I  am  safer  so.  30 

(1855) 

"DE   GUSTIBUS— " 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[The  title  means  "Concerning  Tastes,"  the 
opening  words  of  a  Latin  proverb  meaning  "It 
is  useless  to  argue  matters  of  taste."  This  is 
one  of  a  number  of  poems  expressing  Brown- 
ing's devotion  to  his  adopted  land  of  Italy.  In 
|ines  31-34  he  refers  to  the  hatred  of  the  Ital- 
ians for  their  Bourbon  king,  who  reigned  in 
Naples  until  1861.  Lines  36-40  allude  to  the 
story  that  Queen  Mary  of  England,  shortly 
after  the  French  had  taken  Calais,  said  that  if 
her  breast  were  opened  after  death  the  word 
"Calais"  would  be  found  engraved  on  her  heart.] 

Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please. 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they ! 
Draw  yourself  up   from  the  light  of  the 

moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon. 

With  the  beanflowers'  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June! 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world  lo 

Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled. 
In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 
Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 
And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands)  — 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 
Where  the  baked  cicala^  dies  of  drouth, 
And    one    sharp    tree  —  'tis    a    cypress  — 

stands 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted,  20 
Rough  iron-spiked,  ripe   fruit-o'ercrusted. 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break? 

1  might  question.  That  is,  if  I  were  to  enter  his 
presence  from  a  triumph. 

2  cicala.     Cicada,  locust. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


317 


While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare- footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on   the  pavement,  green-flesh   me- 
lons, 30 
And  says  there's  news  to-day — the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing, 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling, 
— She   hopes    they    have    not    caught    the 

felons. 
Italy,  my  Italy! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me — 
(When  fortune's  malice 
Lost  her  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "Italy."  40 

Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she : 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be ! 

(1855) 


UP  AT   A  VILLA— DOWN   IN   THE 
CITY 

(As  Distinguished  by  an  Italian  Person 
of  Quality) 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Had    I    but    plenty    of    money,    money 

enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house 

in  the  city-square ; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads 

at  the  window  there ! 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something 

to  hear,  at  least ! 
There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a 

perfect  feast; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain 

it,  no  more  than  a  beast. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa !   stuck  like 

the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the 

creature's  skull. 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly 

a  leaf  to  pull ! 
— I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if 

the  hair's  turned  wool.  10 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city — the  square  with 

the  houses  !     Why? 
They  are   stone-faced,   white   as   a  curd, 

there's  something  to  take  the  eye ! 


Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single 

front  awry; 
You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who 

saunters,  who  hurries  by; 
Green   blinds,   as   a   matter  of   course,   to 

draw  when  the  sun  gets  high ; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  whicli 

are  painted  properly. 

What  of  a  villa?    Though  winter  be  over 

in  March  by  rights, 
Tis    May    perhaps    ere    the    snow    shall 

have  withered  well  off  the  heights : 
You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before, 

where  the  oxen  steam  and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the 

faint  gray  olive-trees.  20 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?     You've 

summer  all  at  once ; 
In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a   few 

strong  April  suns. 
'Mid    the    sharp    short    emerald    wheat, 

scarce  risen  three  fingers  well. 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows 

out  its  great  red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the 

children  to  pick  and  sell. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square?     There's  a 

fountain  to  spout  and  splash! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs:  in  the 

shine  such   foambows  flash 
On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that 

prance  and  paddle  and  pash 
Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch — fifty 

gazers  do  not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds 

round  her  waist  in  a  sort  of  sash.  30 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to 

see  though  you  linger. 
Except     yon     cypress     that     points     like 

death's  lean  lifted  forefinger. 
Some    think    fireflies    pretty,    when    they 

mix  i'  the  corn  and  mingle. 
Or  thrid^  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks 

of  it  seem  a-tingle. 
Late    August    or    early    September,     the 

stunning  cicala2  is  shrill, 
And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine 

round  the  resinous  firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare  you  the 

months  of  the  fever  and  chill. 

I  thrid.     Thread,  fly  among. 
3  cicala.     Locust. 


318 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the 
blessed  church-bells  begin : 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the 
diligence  rattles  in : 

You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it 
costs  you  never  a  pin.  40 

By  and  by  there's  the  travelling  doctor 
gives  pills,  lets  blood,  draws  teeth ; 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpeti  breaks  up  the 
market  beneath. 

At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — 
the  new  play,  piping  hot ! 

And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning, 
three  liberal  thieves  were  shot. 

Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most 
fatherly  of  rebukes. 

And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his 
lion,  some  little  new  law  of  'the 
Duke's ! 

Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the 
Reverend  Don  So-and-so, 

Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Saint 
Jerome,  and  Cicero, 

"And  moreover"  (the  sonnet  goes  rhym- 
ing), "the  skirts  of  Saint  Paul  has 
reached, 

Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lec- 
tures more  unctuous  than  ever  he 
preached."  50 

Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  proces- 
sion! our  Lady2  borne  smiling  and 
smart 

With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles, 
and  seven  swords  stuck  in  her  heart! 

Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle- 
te-tootle  the  fife; 

No  keeping  one's  haunches  still :  it's  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  life. 

But  bless  you,  it's  dear — it's  dear!  fowls, 

wine,  at  double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt, 

and  what  oil  pays  passing  the  gate^ 
It's  a  horror  to  think  of.     And  so,  the 

villa  for  me,  not  the  city ! 
Beggars    can    scarcely    be    choosers :    but 

still — ah,  the  pity,  the  pity ! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then 

the  monks  with  cowls  and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts, 

a-holding  the  yellow  candles;  60 

I  Pulcinello-trumpet.  The  trumpet  of  a  Punch 
and  Judy  show. 

3  our  Lady.  An  image  of  the  Virgin.  The 
"seven  swords"  symbolized  what  Catholic  the- 
ologians called  "the  seven  sorrows"  of  Mary. 

3  passing  the  gate.  Where  the  octioi,  or  city 
import  tax,  was  paid. 


One,   he  carries  a  flag  up   straight,   and 

another  a  cross  with  handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear, 

for  the  better  prevention  of  scandals : 
Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle- 

te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no 

such  pleasure  in  life! 

(1855) 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening 
smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle    homeward    through   the    twilight, 
stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 
Was   the  site  once,  of  a  city  great  and 
gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 
Ages  since  10 

Held    his    court    in,    gathered    councils, 
wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

Now, — the  country   does   not  even  boast 
a  tree. 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain 
rillsi 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to   (else  they 
run 

Into  one), 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot 
its  spires 

Up  like  fires  20 

O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all. 
Made   of   marble,    men   might   march   on 
nor  be  pressed. 

Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,   see,  of 
grass 

Never  was ! 

I  After  "verdure"  supply  "which,"  as  object  of 
"intersect."  In  like  manner  supply  "which" 
after  "marble"  in  line  23. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


319 


Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'er- 
spreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 
Stock  or  stone —  30 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy 
and  woe 

Long  ago; 
Lust   of   glory   pricked    their   hearts    up, 
dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the 
gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the    caper^   overrooted,    by    the    gourd 
Overscored,  40 

While  the  patching  houseleek's  head   of 
blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in 
ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chari- 
ots traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch   and  his   minions   and 
his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 

And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet-colored 
eve 

Smiles  to  leave  50 

To   their   folding,   all   our   many-tinkling 
fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And    the    slopes    and    rills    in    undistin- 
guished gray 

Melt  away — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow 
hair 

Waits  me  there 
In    the    turret    whence    the    charioteers 
caught  soul 

For  the  goal. 
When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks 
now,  breathless,  dumb  60 

Till  I  come. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the   mountains   topped  with  temples, 
all  the  glades' 
Colonnades, 
I  caper.     A  shrub. 


All     the     causeys,2     bridges,     aqueducts, — 
and  then, 

All  the  men ! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she 
will  stand. 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first 
embrace 

Of  my  face,  70 

Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and 
speech 

Each  on  each. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters 
forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar 
high 

As  the  sky. 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full 
force — 

Gold,  of  course. 
Oh   heart !   oh   blood   that   freezes,   blood 
that   burns! 

Earth's   returns  80 

For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and 
sin! 

Shut  them  in, 
With    their    triumphs    and    their    glories 
and  the  rest ! 
Love  is  best. 

(I8SS) 


AMERICA 

SYDNEY    DOBELL 

[This  is  one  of  several  sonnets  written  at  the 
time  of  the  Crimean  War,  when  the  relations 
between  Great  Britain  and  America  were  some- 
what  strained.] 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us !     O 

ye 
Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  western 

land, 
Native    to    noble    sounds,    say    truth    for 

truth, 
Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love,  and 

God 
For  God;  O  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 
Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 
This  universal  English,  and  do  stand 
Its  breathing  book;   live  worthy  of  that 

grand. 
Heroic  utterance — parted,  yet  a  whole, 

2  causeys.     Causeways. 


320         POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 

Far,  yet  unsevered, — children  brave  and  Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial  theme, 

free  lo  And  rich  as   Chaucer's  speech,  and   fair 

Of  the  great  Mother-tongue,  and  ye  shall  be  as  Spenser's  dream. 

Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakespeare's 

soul,  (1855) 


THERE  WAS   A   CHILD  WENT   FORTH 

WALT    WHITMAN 

There  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day; 

And  the  first  object  he  look'd  upon,  that  object  he  became, 

And  that  object  became  part  of  him  for  the  day  or  a  certain  part  of  the  day, 

Or  for  many  years,  or  stretching  cycles  of  years. 

The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 

And  grass,  and  white  and  red  morning-glories,  and  white  and  red  clover,  and  the  song 

of  the  phoebe-bird. 
And  the  Third-month  lambs,  and  the  sow's  pink-faint  litter,  and  the  mare's  foal,  and 

the  cow's  calf, 
And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barnyard  or  by  the  mire  of  the  pond-side, 
And    the   fish    suspending   themselves     so   curiously   below   there,   and   the   beautiful 

curious  liquid, 
And  the  water-plants  with  their  graceful  flat  heads, — all  became  part  of  him.  10 

The  field-sprouts  of  Fourth-month  and  Fifth-month  became  part  of  him, 
Winter-grain  sprouts,  and  those  of  the  light-yellow  corn,  and  the  esculent  roots  of 

the  garden. 
And  the  apple-trees  cover'd  with  blossoms  and  the  fruit  afterward,  and  wood-berries, 

and  the  commonest  weeds  by  the  road; 
And  the  old  drunkard  staggering  home  from  the  outhouse  of  the  tavern  whence  he 

had  lately  risen. 
And  the  schoolmistress  that  pass'd  on  her  way  to  the  school. 
And  the  friendly  boys  that  pass'd,  and  the  quarrelsome  boys. 
And  the  tidy  and  fresh-cheek'd  girls,  and  the  barefoot  negro  boy  and  girl. 
And  all  the  changes  of  city  and  country  wherever  he  went. 

His  own  parents,  _  19 

He  that  had  father'd  him  and  she  that  had  conceiv'd  him  in  her  womb  and  birth'd  him. 
They  gave  this  child  more  of  themselves  than  that; 
They  gave  him  afterward  every  day,  they  became  part  of  him. 

The   mother  at  home,  quietly  placing  the  dishes  on  the  supper-table, 

The  mother  with  mild  words,  clean  her  cap  and  gown,  a  wholesome  odor  falling  oflF 

her  person  and  clothes  as  she  walks  by. 
The  father,  strong,  self-sufficient,  manly,  mean,  anger'd,  unjust. 
The  blow,  the  quick  loud  word,  the  tight  bargain,  the  crafty  lure. 
The  family  usages,  the  language,  the  company,  the  furniture,  the  yearning  and  swell- 
ing heart. 
Affection  that  will  not  be  gainsay'd,  the  sense  of  what  is  real,  the  thought  if  after 

all  it  should  prove  unreal, 
The  doubts  of  day-time  and  the  doubts  of  night-time,  the  curious  whether  and  how, 
Whether  that  which  appears  so  is  so,  or  is  it  all  flashes  and  specks?  30 

Men  and  women  crowding  fast  in  the  streets,  if  they  are  not  flashes  and  specks  what 
are  they? 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE    POEMS  321 

The  streets  themselves,  and  the  facades  of  houses,  and  goods  in  the  windows, 

Vehicles,  teams,  the  heavy-plank'd  wharves,  the  huge  crossing  at  the  ferries, 

The  village  on  the  highland,  seen  from  afar  at  sunset,  the  river  between. 

Shadows,  aureola  and  mist,  the  light  falling  on  roofs  and  gables  of  white  or  brown, 

three  miles  oflf, 
The  schooner  near  by,  sleepily  dropping  down   the  tide,   the  little   boat   slack-tow'd 

astern. 
The  hurrying  tumbling  waves,  quick-broken  crests,  slapping. 
The  strata  of  color'd  clouds,  the  long  bar  of   maroon-tint  away  solitary  by  itself, 

the  spread  of  purity  it  lies  motionless  in. 
The  horizon's  edge,  the  flying  sea-crow,  the  fragrance  of  salt  marsh  and  shore  mud ; 
These  became  part  of  that  child  who  went  forth  every  day,  and  who  now  goes,  and 

will  always  go  forth  every  day.  40 

(1855) 

THE  GRASS 

[From  the   poem  "Walt  Whitman"] 
WALT    WHITMAN 

A  child  said,  IVhat  is  the  grass?  fetching  it  to  me  with  full  hands; 

How  could  I  answer  the  child?     I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  any  more  than  he. 

I  guess  it  must  be  the  flag  of  my  disposition,  out  of  hopeful  green  stuff  woven. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  the  handkerchief  of  the  Lord, 

A  scented  gift  and  remembrancer,  designedly  dropp'd. 

Bearing  the  owner's  name  someway  in  the  corners,  that  we   may   see  and   remark, 

and  say  IV hose f 
Or  I  guess  the  grass  is  itself  a  child,  the  produced  babe  of  the  vegetation. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  a  uniform  hieroglyphic. 
And  it  means. 

Sprouting  alike  in  broad  zones  and  narrow  zones,  10 

Growing  among  black  folks  as  among  white, 

Kanuck,  Tuckahoe,  Congressman,  Cuflf,  I   give   them  the  same,   I   receive  them  the 
same. 

And  now  it  seems  to  me  the  beautiful  uncut  hair  of  graves. 

Tenderly  will  I  use  you,  curling  grass; 

It  may  be  you  transpire  from  the  breasts  of  young  men, 

It  may  be  if  I  had  known  them  I  would  have  loved  them, 

It  may  be  you  are  from  old  people,  and  from  women,  and  from  offspring  taken  soon 

out  of  their  mothers'  laps, 
And  here  you  are  the  mothers'  laps. 

This  grass  is  very  dark  to  be  from  the  white  heads  of  old  mothers. 

Darker  than  the  colorless  beards  of  old  men,  .20 

Dark  to  come  from  under  the  faint  red  roofs  of  mouths. 

O  I  perceive  after  all  so  many  uttering  tongues ! 

And  I  perceive  they  do  not  come  from  the  Toofs  of  mouths  for  nothing. 


322 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


I  wish  I  could  translate  the  hints  about  the  dead  young  men  and  women, 
And  the  hints  about  old  men  and  mothers,  and  the  offspring  taken  soon  out  of  their 
laps. 

What  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  young  and  old  men? 
And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  women  and  children? 


They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere ; 

The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death ; 

And  if  ever  there  was,  it  led  forward  life,  and  does  not  wait  at  the  end  to  arrest  it. 

And  ceased  the  moment  life  appear'd. 

All  goes  onward  and  outward,  nothing  collapses. 

And  to  die  is  different  from  what  any  one  supposed,  and  luckier. 

(i8SS) 


30 


MY  LOST  YOUTH 

HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

[The  poem  refers  to  Portland,  Maine,  Long- 
fellow's native  town.  "Deering's  Woods"  (lines 
47,  82)  was  an  oak-grove  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  city;  the  sea-fight  of  line  37  was  an  en- 
gagement of  the  War  of  1812,  between  the 
American  brig  Enterprise  and  the  British  Boxer.] 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The   pleasant   streets    of    that    dear    old 
town. 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees,  10 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams. 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas. 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides^ 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I   remember  the  black   wharves   and  the 

slips. 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free ;  20 

And  the  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 

And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 

I   Hesperides.     The  western  isles  of  the  golden 
apples,  in  Greek  mythology. 


And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And    the    voice    of    that    wayward 

song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore. 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar,    30 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 

And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 

How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil 
bay  40 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And   the   sound   of   that   mournful 

song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves. 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods; 
And    the    friendships    old    and    the    early 

loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of 

doves 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


323 


In  quiet  neighborhoods.  50 

And   the   verse   of   that   sweet   old 

song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts," 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that 
dart 
Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song  60 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

There   are   things   of   which   I    may   not 
speak ; 
There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong 

heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek. 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill :  70 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well- 
known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down. 

Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,  80 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there. 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that 
were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song. 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will. 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts."  90 

(1855) 


ROBERT   OF   LINCOLN 

WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame. 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours. 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dress'd,        10 
V/earing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 
White   are   his   shoulders   and   white   his 
crest. 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine. 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife. 

Pretty    and    quiet,    with    plain    brown 
wings,  20 

Passing  at  home  a  patient  life. 
Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband 
sings : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Brood,  kind  creature;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note.        29 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay. 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might :  40 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice   good   wife,   that    never   goes   out, 
Keeping  house  while  I   frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


324 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds   for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link,  50 

Spink,  spank,  spink; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care ; 
Oflf  is  his  holiday  garment  laid. 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink;  60 

Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes;  the  children  are  grown; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink;  69 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

(185s) 


THE   BAREFOOT   BOY 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man. 

Barefoot  boy,  with  cheeks  of  tan! 

With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 

And   thy  merry   whistled  tunes; 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 

Kissed   by   strawberries   on   the  hill; 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 

Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace; 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy, — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy !  10 

Prince  thou  art, — the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 

Outward   sunshine,   inward   joy: 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  1 


Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools. 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase. 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young,  30 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks,  40 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks. 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy, — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 

Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 

When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 

Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees,  $0 

Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 

For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 

Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 

For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 

Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 

Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 

Whispering  at  the  garden  wall. 

Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 

Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond,    60 

Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond. 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees. 

Apples  of  Hesperides  !  ^ 

Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 

Larger  grew  my  riches  too; 

All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 

Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 

Fashioned   for  a  barefoot  boy! 


Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play. 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 


20 


Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood. 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 

I  See  note  on  page  322. 


70 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


325 


Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire.  80 

I  was  monarch :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 

Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can ! 

Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard. 

Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 

Every  mom  shall  lead  thee  through 

Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 

Every  evening  from  thy  feet 

Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat :        90 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 

In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 

Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod. 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil. 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 

Happy  if  their  track  be  found 

Never  on  forbidden  ground; 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 

Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin.      100 

Ah!  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 

Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy! 

(1856) 


A   FAREWELL 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give 
you; 
No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and 
gray: 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can   leave 
you 

For  every  day. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be 
clever; 
Do   noble   things,   not   dream   them,    all 
day  long: 
And  so  make   life,   death,   and  that   vast 
forever 

One  grand,  sweet  song. 


(1856) 


DAYS 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes. 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will. 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds 

them  all. 
I,  in  my  pleached^  garden,   watched  the 

pomp. 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily  8 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.  I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet^  saw  the  scorn. 

(i8S7) 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

["Suggested,"  said  Holmes,  "by  looking  at  a 
section  of  one  of  those  chambered  shells  to 
which  is  given  the  name  of  Pearly  Nautilus. 
...  A  section  will  show  you  the  series  of 
enlarging  compartments  successively  dwelt  in  by 
the  animal  that  inhabits  the  shell,  which  is  built 
in   a   widening   spiral."] 

This   is  the  ship  of  pearl,   which,   poets 
feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet   summer   wind  its  purpled 

wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare. 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their 
streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 
Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 
And  every  chambered  cell,  10 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to 

dwell. 
As  the    frail    tenant   shaped   his   growing 
shell, 
Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its   irised   ceiling   rent,    its    sunless   crypt 
unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew. 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the 
new, 

1  pleached.     Bowered  (with  branches). 

2  fillet.     Worn  in  the  hair  of  a  priestess. 


326 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway 

through, 
Built  up  its  idle  door,  20 

Stretched    in    his    last-found   home,    and 

knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought 
by  thee, 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than   ever   Triton^   blew    from   wreathed 
horn! 
While  on  mine  ear  it  rings. 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear 
a  voice  that  sings : 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my 
soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll !  30 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last. 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 
vast. 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  un- 
resting sea! 

(1858) 

THE   LIVING   TEMPLE 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

[Originally  called  "The  Anatomist's  Hymn." 
It  will  be  seen  how  the  author  interprets  poet- 
ically the  respiratory  and  circulatory  systems, 
the  muscular  and  nervous  structure,  the  organs 
of  sight  and  hearing,  and  the  brain  and  nerves.] 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone. 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne. 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below. 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go. 
And  endless   isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen : 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame, — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows    murmuring    through    its    hidden 

caves,  10 

Whose    streams    of    brightening    purple 

rush. 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away. 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

I  Triton.  A  Greek  sea-god,  with  trumpet  of 
shell. 


No  Test  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task. 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net  20 

Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides. 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part. 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains,    30 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 
Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By   any   chance   shall   break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound. 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round. 
Wakes   the   hushed   spirit   through   thine 

ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear,  40 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds ; 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill. 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads ! 

O  Father!  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine !      50 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all. 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall. 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms ! 

(1858) 


A   SUN-DAY   HYMN 

OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES 

Lord  of  all  being!  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere. 
Yet  to  each   loving  heart  how  near ! 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


327 


Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn ;       lo 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign; 
AH,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine ! 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above. 

Whose   light   is   truth,   whose  warmth   is 

love, 
Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 
We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free. 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn   for  thee, 
Till  all   thy  living  altars   claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame !      20 

(1859) 


DRIFTING 

THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ 

My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swings  round  the  purple  peaks  remote : — 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw,  10 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim. 

The  mountains  swim ; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  outstretched  hands. 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischial  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles;  20 

And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits. 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  Ischia.  Ischia  and  Capri  (line  22)  are  islands 
at  the  northern  and  southern  horns  of  the  Bay  of 
Naples. 


I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff; 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise.  30 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals 

At  peace  I  lie. 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild. 

Is   Heaven's   own   child. 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled; 

The  airs  I   feel  40 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies  50 

Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid. 
Are  gamboling  with  the  gamboling  kid; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls. 
Laugh  on  the  rock  like  waterfalls.  60 

The  fisher's  child. 

With  tresses  wild. 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips. 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows ; 

This  happier  one, —  70 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 


328 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew ! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore  80 

Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar : 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise! 

(i860) 


OUR  COUNTRY 
JULIA    WARD   HOWE 

On  primal  rocks  she  wrote  her  name, 
Her  towers  were  reared  on  holy  graves, 
The  golden  seed  that  bore  her  came 
Swift-winged     with    prayer    o'er     ocean 
waves. 

The  Forest  bowed  his  solemn  crest, 
And  open  flung  his  sylvan  doors ; 
Meek  Rivers  led  the  appointed  Guest 
To  clasp  the  wide-embracing  shores; 

Till,  fold  by  fold,  the  broidered  Land 
To  swell  her  virgin  vestments  grew,       10 
While   Sages,   strong  in   heart  and  hand, 
Her  virtue's  fiery  girdle  drew. 

O  Exile  of  the  wrath  of  Kings! 
O   Pilgrim  Ark  of   Liberty ! 
The  refuge  of  divinest  things. 
Their  record  must  abide  in  thee. 

First  in  the  glories  of  thy  front 
Let  the  crown  jewel  Truth  be  found; 
Thy  right  hand  fling  with  generous  wont 
Love's  happy  chain  to  furthest  bound.    20 

Let  Justice  with  the   faultless  scales 
Hold  fast  the  worship  of  thy  sons, 
Thy  commerce  spread  her  shining  sails 
Where  no  dark  tide  of  rapine  runs. 

So  link  thy  ways  to  those  of  God, 
So  follow  firm  the  heavenly  laws, 
That     stars     may     greet     thee,     warrior- 
browed. 
And  storm-sped  angels  hail  thy  cause. 


O  Land,  the  measure  of  our  prayers,      29 
Hope  of  the  world,  in  grief  and  wrong; 
Be  thine  the  blessing  of  the  years, 
The  gift  of  faith,  the  crown  of  song. 

(1861) 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

JULIA    WARD    HOWE 

[Written  as  a  war-song  for  the  Union  cause 
in  the  Civil  War,  and  set  to  the  tune  of  "John 
Brown's   Body,"   a   favorite  among  the   soldiers.] 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Lord : 

He  is   trampling  out   the   vintage  where 
the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of 
His  terrible  swift  sword: 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a 

hundred  circling  camps; 
They  have  builded   Him  an  altar  in  the 

evening  dews  and  damps ; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the 

dim  and  flaring  lamps : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  bur- 
nished rows  of  steel : 

"As  ye  deal  with  My  contemners,  so  with 
you  My  grace  shall  deal ;  10 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the 
serpent  with  His  heell^ 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has   sounded   forth  the  trumpet  that 

shall  never  call  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before 

His  judgment-seat; 
Oh!  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him! 

be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In   the   beauty   of   the   lilies    Christ   was 
born  across  the  sea. 

With  a  glory   in   His  bosom  that  trans- 
figures you  and  me: 

As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die 
to  make  men  free. 

While  God  is  marching  on.        20 

(1862) 

I  See  Genesis  3:14-15. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


329 


DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER 

GEORGE    HENRY    BOKER 

[In    memory    of    General    Philip    Kearny,    who 
fell    in   battle    in   the    Civil    War.] 

Close  his  eyes ;  his  work  is  done ! 

What  to  him  is   friend  or   foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 
Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?    He  cannot  know; 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight. 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor;      lo 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?     He  cannot  know; 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley? 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 
What  but  death-bemocking  folly?       20 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he?    He  cannot  know; 
Lay  him  low ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by; 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow !  30 

What  cares  he  ?    He  cannot  know  ! 
Lay  him  low ! 

(1862) 

SAY   NOT  THE  STRUGGLE 
NOUGHT  AVAILETH 

ARTHUR   HUGH    CLOUGH 

Say   not  the   struggle   nought   availeth. 
The  labor  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 


For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  break- 
ing, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain,     10 
Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  mak- 
ing, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main.^ 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only. 

When    daylight    comes,    comes    in    the 
light. 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

(1862) 

UP-HILL 
CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will   the    day's   journey   take   the   whole 
long  day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 
A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours 
begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it   from  my 
face? 
You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before.  10 

Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in 
sight? 
They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that 
door. 

Shall    I    find    comfort,    travel-sore    and 
weak? 
Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds   for  me  and  all  who 
seek? 
Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

(1862) 

SONG 

CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest. 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress-tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  main.     Ocean. 


330 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain;  10 

I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on  as  if  in  pain: 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 

(1862) 

YOUNG  AND  OLD 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad. 

And  all  the  trees  are  green, 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad. 

And  every  lass  a  queen ; 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad. 

And  round  the  world  away ! 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad. 

And  every  dog  his  day. 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad. 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown ;  10 

And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad. 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down ; 
Creep  home,  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  spent  and  maimed  among: 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there 

You  loved  when  all  was  young. 

(1863) 

SONGS   OF   SEVEN 

JEAN    INGELOW 

Seven  Times  One 

There's  no  dew  left  on   the  daisies   and 
clover. 
There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven; 
I've    said    my    "seven    times"    over    and 
over, — 
Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done; 
The    lambs    play    always,    they    know    no 

better, — 
They  are  only  one  times  one. 

O  moon !   in  the  night  I   have   seen  you 
sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low;  10 

You    were   bright !    ah,   bright !    but   your 
light  is  failing, — 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 


You    moon,    have    you    done    something 
wrong  in  heaven 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face? 
I  hope  if  you  have  you  will  soon  be  for- 
given. 
And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow, 
You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold ! 

O  brave  marsh  marybuds,   rich  and  yel- 
low, 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold !  20 

O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper. 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 

0  cuckoopint,  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young 
ones  in  it, — 
I  will  not  steal  them  away; 

1  am    old !    you    may    trust    me,    linnet, 

linnet — 
I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

Seven  Times  Two 

You  bells   in   the   steeple,   ring,  ring  out 
your  changes. 
How  many  soever  they  be,  30 

And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as 
he  ranges 
Come  over,  come  over  to  tae. 

Yet   birds'   clearest   carol   by   fall   or   by 
swelling 
No  magical  sense  conveys. 
And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art  of 
telling 
The  fortune  of  future  days. 

"Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they  rang 
cheerily, 
While   a   boy  listened   alone; 
Made  his   heart  yearn  again,   musing   so 
wearily 
All  by  himself  on  a  stone.  40 

Poor   bells !     I    forgive  you ;   your   good 
days  are  over, 
And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be; 
No    listening,     no    longing    shall    aught, 
aught  discover, — 
You  leave  the  story  to  me. 


LYRICAL  AND  REFLECTIVE  POEMS 


331 


The    foxglove    shoots   out    of    the    green 
matted  heather, 
Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow; 
She  was  idle,  and  slept  till  the  sunshiny 
weather : 
Oh,  children  take  long  to  grow. 

I  wish  and  I  wish  that  the  spring  would 
go  faster, 
Nor  long  summer  bide  so  late,  50 

And  I  could  go  on  like  the  foxglove  and 
aster. 
For  some  things  are  ill  to  wait. 

I  wait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts  shall 
discover, 
While    dear    hands    are    laid    on    my 
head, — 
"The   child   is   a   woman,   the    book   may 
close  over. 
For  all  the  lessons  are  said." 

I    wait    for   my   story — the   birds   cp.nnot 
sing  it, 
Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree ; 
The  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years 
O  bring  it! 
Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be.  60 

(1863) 


BOSTON   HYMN 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

[Emerson  read  this  poem  at  a  meeting  held 
in  Music  Hall,  Boston,  on  January  1,  1863,  in 
celebration  of  President  Lincoln's  Proclamation 
of    Emancipation.] 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 
As  they  sat  by  the  seaside, 
And    filled   their    hearts    with   flame. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 
I  suffer  them  no  more ; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 
A  field  of  havoc  and  war,  10 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 
Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor? 

My  angel, — his  name  is  Freedom, — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 


Lo !  I  uncover  the  land 
Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 
When  he  has  wrought  his  best;  20 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas, 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreaU  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods ; 
Call  in  the  wf etch  and  slave : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 
And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble. 
No  lineage  counted  great ;  30 

Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs; 
Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 


Call  the  people  together. 
The  young  men  and  the  sires. 
The  digger  in  the  harvest  field, 
Hireling  and  him  that  hires ; 


40 


And  here  in   a  pine   state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 
In  every  needful   faculty. 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now!  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea. 
And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun. 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men ; 

'Tis  nobleness  to  serve : 

Help  them  who  cannot  help  again : 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 

I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 
And  I  unchain  the  slave : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 
His  proper  good  to  flow : 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth. 
So  much  he  shall  bestow. 
I  boreal.     Northern. 


50 


60 


332 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But,  laying  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive, 
So  only  are  ye  unbound ; 
Lift  up  a  people   from  the  dust, 
Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound ! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner. 
And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim.  70 

Who  is  the  owner?     The  slave  is  owner, 
And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 

O  North !  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  O  South!  for  his  shame; 
Nevada !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up !  and  the  dusky  race 

That  sat   in  darkness  long, — 

Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 

And  as  behemoth  strong.  80 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be. 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark. 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 

(1863) 


RABBI   BEN   EZRA 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[In  this  monologue  Browning  puts  his  own 
philosophy  of  life,  especially  that  concerning  the 
flevelopment  of  the  soul  from  youth  to  age.  into 
the  mouth  of  a  rabbi  who  actually  Uvea  and 
taught  in  the  12th  century;  his  name  appears 
as  Ibn  Ezra  or  Abenezra.  From  certain  of  his 
writings  Browning  was  led  to  associate  with  him 
the  thoughts  here  developed;  for  example,  he 
had  said,  "Man  has  the  sole  privilege  of  becom- 
ing superior  to  the  beast  and  the  fowl"  (com- 
pare stanzas  4  and  5),  and  again,  ''The  soul  of 
man  is  called  lonely  because  it  is  separated 
during  its  union  with  the  body  from  the  uni- 
versal soul"    (compare  line  48,  etc.).] 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be. 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was 

made : 
Our  times  are  in  his  hand 
Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned. 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all, 

nor  be  afraid!" 


Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which   lily   leave    and   then   as    best   re- 
call?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars,  lO 

It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,^  nor  Mars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends, 
transcends  them  all  I" 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears, 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate :  folly  wide  the  mark ! 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds   exist   without, 
Finished  and   finite  clods,  untroubled  by 
a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed. 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed  20 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men : 
Irks    care2    the    crop-full    bird?      Frets 
doubt  the  maw-crammed  beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive ! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of^  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take, 
I  must  believe.  30 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but 

go! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never 

grudge  the  throe! 

For  thence, — a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 
What  I  aspired  to  be,  40 

And  was  not,  comforts  me: 
A  brute  I   might   have   been,  but   would 
not   sink  i'   the   scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 
Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit. 

I  Jove.     Jupiter. 

a  Irks  care.     Does  care  disturb. 

3  hold  of.     Are  related  to. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


333 


Whose  spirit   works   lest   arms  and   legs 

want  play? 
To  man,  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its 

lone  way? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 

I  own  the  Past  profuse  50 

Of    power    each    side,    perfection    every 

turn  : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole. 
Brain  treasured  up  the   whole ; 
Should    not   the   heart    beat   once    "How 

good  to  live  and. learn"? 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  thine! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  Love  perfect 

too; 
Perfect  I  call  thy  plan : 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 
Maker,   remake,   complete, — I   trust   what 

thou  shalt  do!"  60 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for 

rest: 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as 

we  did  best ! 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon 

the  whole !" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  70 

Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now, 

than  flesh  helps  soul !" 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its 

term  :^ 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though 

in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 
Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone  80 

Once  more  on   my  adventure  brave  and 
new : 

I  term.     End. 


Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons   to  select,  what  armor  to 
indue.2 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 
Leave    the    fire    ashes,    what    survives    is 

gold : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;   I  shall  know, 

being  old.  go 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the 
gray: 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots — "Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth:  here  dies  an- 
other day." 

So,  still  within  this  life. 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife. 

Let    me   discern,   compare,   pronounce   at 

last, 
"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  100 

That  acquiescence  vain : 
The    Future    I    may    face,    now    I    have 

proved  the  Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day : 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the 
tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,3  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth,      no 

Toward    making,    than    repose    on    aught 

found  made : 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age :  wait  death 

nor  be  afraid ! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand 

thine  own. 
With  knowledge  absolute. 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From   fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let 

thee  feel  alone.  120 

a  indue.     Put  on. 

3  better.     Note  that  the  comma  after  this  word, 
both  here  and  in  112,  represents  an  omitted  "that." 


334 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 
Was  1,1  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul   disdained, 
Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give 
us  peace  at  last! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  re- 
ceive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  130 

Match  me;  we  all  surmise, 

They  this  thing,  and  I  that :  whom  shall 
my  soul  believe? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had 

the  price; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found    straightway    to    its    mind,    could 

value  in  a  trice : 

But  all,2  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb,  140 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled 
the  man's  amount : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and 

escaped ; 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This  I   was  worth  to   God,  whose  wheel 

the  pitcher  shaped.  150 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel. 

That  metaphor !   and   feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our 

clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound. 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past 

gone,  seize  to-day !" 

Fool !     All  that  is,  at  all. 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

1  /.     Here,  and  in  the  following  line,  the  comma 
represents  an  omitted  "whom." 

2  all.     Here,  and  in  line  149,  "that"  is  omitted. 


Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand 

sure: 
What  entered  into  thee,  160 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops :  Potter 

and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic^  circumstance. 

This   Present,  thou,  forsooth,  would  fain 

arrest : 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently 

impressed.* 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves, 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves'*  170 

Around   thy   base,    no    longer   pause   and 

press? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim. 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow    out,    in    graver    mood,    obey    the 

sterner  stress? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up ! 

To  uses  of  a  cup. 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trum- 
pet's peal. 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  Master's  lips  aglow ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what 
needst  thou  with  earth's  wheel?       180 

But  I  need,  now  as  then. 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men ; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was 

worst. 
Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife. 
Bound  dizzily — mistake  my  end,  to  slake 

thy  thirst : 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work ! 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuffs,  what  warpings 
past  the  aim ! 

My  times  be  in  thy  hand !  190 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned ! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  com- 
plete the  same ! 

(1864) 

3  plastic.     Formative. 

4  impressed.      Moulded. 

5  loves.     Cupids. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


335 


PROSPICE 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[The  title  means  "Look  forward."  The  poem 
was  written  shortly  after  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Browning,  to  whom  the  conclusion  is  addressed.] 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When   the   snows   begin,   and   the   blasts 
denote 
I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the 
storm. 
The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  vis- 
ible form, 
Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit 
attained, 
And  the  barriers  fall,  lo 

Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon 
be  gained. 
The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes, 
and  forbore. 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like 
my  peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's 
arrears 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  20 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the 
brave, 
The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements*  rage,  the   fiend-voices 
that  rave, 
Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace 
out  of  pain. 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I   shall  clasp 
thee  again. 
And  with  God  be  the  rest  1 


O    CAPTAIN!    MY    CAPTAIN! 

WALT    WHITMAN 

[On  the  death  of  Lincoln  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  Civil   War.] 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip 

is  done, 
The  ship   has   weather'd  every  rack,  the 

prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port   is   near,   the   bells   I   hear,   the 

people  all  exulting. 
While    follow   eyes    the    steady    keel,    the 
vessel  grim   and   daring; 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red. 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear 

the  bells : 
Rise   up — for  you   the   flag   is   flung — for 
you  the  bugle  trills,  lo 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — 

for  you  the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their 
eager  faces  turning; 
Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 


My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are 

pale  and  still. 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has 

no  pulse  nor  will; 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its 

voyage  closed  and  done, 
From   fearful  trip  the   victor  ship  comes 
in  with  object  won ;  20 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


(1864) 


(1865) 


336 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVARD 
COMMEMORATION 

JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 

[This  poem  was  read  at  a  commemoration 
service  in  honor  of  Harvard  men  who  had  fallen 
in  the  Civil  War,  July  21,  1865,  and  was  pub- 
lished in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  September.] 


Weak-winged  is  song, 
Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 
Whither    the    brave    deed    climbs    for 
light : 
We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf^   to  deck  their 

hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  no- 
bler verse, 
Our  trivial  song  to  honor  those  who  come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and 

drum. 
And    shaped    in    squadron-strophes    their 

desire, 
Live   battle-odes   whose  lines   were   steel 
and  fire :  lo 

Yet    sometimes    feathered    words    are 
strong, 
A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's^  dreamless  ooz^  the  com- 
mon grave 
Of  the  unventurous  throng. 

II 
To-day   our   Reverend   Mother  welcomes 
back 
Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  under- 
stood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 
And  offered  their   fresh  lives  to  make 
it  good : 
No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
No   science  peddling  with   the  names  of 
things,  20 

Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the 
many  waits. 
And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them 

and  dilates : 
Nor  such  thy  teaching.  Mother  of  us  all ! 
Not  such  the  trumpet-call 
Of  thy  diviner  mood. 
That  could  thy  sons  entice  30 

I  rohin's-leaf.     Like  those  brought  by  the  robins 
to  cover  the  "babes  in  the  wood." 
a  Lethe.     The  river  of  forgetfulness. 


From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful 

nest 
Of    those    half-virtues    which    the    world 
calls  best. 
Into  War's  tumult  rude; 
But  rather   far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle 
stood 
In  the  dim,  unventured  wood. 
The  Veritas^  that  lurks  beneath 
The  letter's  unprolific   sheath. 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  liv- 
ing, 
Seed-grain    of    high    emprise,    immortal 
food,  40 

One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath 
the  giving. 

Ill 
Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best 

oil 
Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her. 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 
With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  be- 
hind  her. 
Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her. 
Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for 

her; 
But  these,   our  brothers,   fought    for 

her, 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her, 
Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness  51 

Of  her  divine  completeness: 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love   her  best  who  to  themselves 

are  true. 
And  what  they   dare  to  dream  of,   dare 
to  do; 
They  followed  her  and  found  her 
Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But    beautiful,    with    danger's    sweetness 
round  her. 
Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed     60 
Breathes  its  awakening  breath 
Into  the  lifeless  creed. 
They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 
With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled. 
And    all-repaying    eyes,     look    proud    on 
them  in  death. 


IV 

Our   slender   life    runs   rippling   by,    and 
glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 
What  is  there  that  abides 

3   Veritas,     Truth, — the  Harvard  motto. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


337 


To  make  the   next  age  better   for  the 
last? 
Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us  70 

Something  to  live    for  here   that   shall 
outlive  us? 
Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  For- 
tune's fickle  moon? 
The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free; 
The  little  that  we  do 
Is  but  half-nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 
What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call 
dross,  79 

Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving, 
Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss. 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen 
wires. 
After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  de- 
sires, 
Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires. 
Are    tossed    pell-mell    together    in    the 

grave. 
But  stay!  no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate. 
For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our 
fate.  90 

Ah,  there  is  something  here 
Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer. 
Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 
A  high  immunity  from  Night, 
Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of 
heaven; 
A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our   earthy    dulness   with    the   beams    of 
stars. 
And  glorify  our  clay 
With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the 
Day;  lOO 

A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 
A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 
A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 
Of  some  more  noble  permanence; 

A  light  across  the  sea. 
Which  haunts  the  sou!  and  will  not  let 
it  be. 
Still  beaconing  from  the  heights  of  un- 
degenerate  years. 


W^hither  leads   the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads,      110 

To  reap  an  aftermath 


Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds; 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly  hostile  creeds. 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way. 
And  every  turf  the  fierce   foot  clings  to 
bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the 
sword  120 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath ; 
But   some   day   the   live   coal    behind   the 
thought, 
Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame;   the  war  of  tongue 

and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was 

fraught. 
And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught. 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock 
of  men :  129 

Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 
Confronts  us  fiercely,   foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful:  "Was  it,  then,  my 

praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved?     Prove  now 

thy  truth; 
I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth ; 
Give    me    thy    life,    or    cower    in    empty 

phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate !" 
Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  bountiful  is  Fate;  140 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield. 
This  shows,  methinks,   God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who   stands    self-poised   on    manhood's 

solid  earth. 
Not    forced  to    frame   excuses    for   his 
birth. 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he 
needs. 


VI 


Such  was  he.  our  Martyr-Chief,  1 50 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led. 
With  ashes  on  her  head. 

Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 


338 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and 

burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-hon- 
ored urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote. 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote :  l6o 

For  him  her  Old-World  moulds  aside  she 
threw. 
And,    choosing    sweet    clay    from    the 
breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,   steadfast   in   the  strength  of   God, 
and  true. 
How  beautiful  to  see 
Once   more   a  shepherd   of   mankind    in- 
deed. 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to 

lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed 
to  be. 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth,  170 

But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth. 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 
They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In    that    sure  -  footed  mind's    unfaltering 
skill, 
And  supple-tempered  will 
That    bent    like    perfect    steel   to    spring 
again  and  thrust. 
His    was    no    lonely    mountan-peak    of 

mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy 

bars, 
A   sea-mark   now,   now   lost   in  vapors 
blind;  180 

Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined. 
Fruitful   and    friendly    for   all    human- 
kind. 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loft- 
iest stars. 
Nothing  of  Europe  here. 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  morn-ward 
still. 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 

And  thwart  her  genial  will; 
Here   was   a  type  of   the  true   elder 
race. 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men^  talked  with 
us  face  to  face.  190 

I  A  man  like  one  of  the  old-world  heroes  cele- 
brated by  Plutarch  in  his  Lives. 


I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must 

be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such   as   the    Present   gives,   and   cannot 
wait. 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time. 
And  can  his  fame  abide. 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime. 
Till  the  wise  years  decide.  200 

Great    captains,    with    their    guns    and 
drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour. 
But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like 

a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame. 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing 
man. 
Sagacious,    patient,    dreading   praise,    not 
blame. 
New   birth   of   our  new  soil,   the   first 
American. 

VII 

Long  as  man's  hope  insatiate  can  dis- 
cern 
Or  only  guess   some   more   inspiring 
goal  210 

Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole, 
Along   whose   course   the   flying    axles 

burn 
Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  man- 
lier brood; 
Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The    meed    that    stills    the    inexorable 

mind; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  name  it  masks. 
Freedom,   Law,   Country,   this   ethereal 
mood 
That  thanks  the   Fates   for  their  severer 
tasks. 
Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap,      220 
While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap. 
And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon 
it  asks, 
Shall    win    man's   praise   and    woman's 

love. 
Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 
All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 
A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  en- 
wreathe 
Laurels     that     with     a     living     passion 
breathe 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


339 


When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine 
them,  sear. 
What   brings   us   thronging  these  high 
rites  to  pay, 
And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our 
year,  230 

Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  bet- 
ter way? 

VIII 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That    flows    with    Freedom's    honey    and 
milk; 
But  'twas  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as 
silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our 

best ; — 
Ah  me !  not  all !  some  come  not  with  the 
rest. 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any 

here! 
I   strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my 
strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain,  240 

And  will  not  please  the  ear: 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps. 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb 

turf  wraps. 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to 
gain: 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 
I  with  uncovered  head  250 

Salute  the  sacred  dead, 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not. — Say 

not  so ! 
'Tis   not   the   grapes   of    Canaan^   that 

repay. 
But  the  high   faith  that   failed  not  by 
the  way; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the 

grave ; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 
We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  be- 
hind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow ! 
For   never   shall   their   aureoled   presence 
lack  :2  260 

I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row. 
With    ever-youthful    brows    that    nobler 
show; 

1  grapes  of  Canaan.     See  Numbers  13:23. 

2  lack.      Be  missing. 


We  find   in  our  dull  road  their  shining 
track ; 
In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration; 

They  come  transfigured  back. 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted 

ways. 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Ex- 

271 


pectation ! 


IX 


But  IS  there  hope  to  save 
Even    this    ethereal    essence    from    the 

grave  ? 
What    ever    'scaped    Oblivion's    subtle 
wrong 
Save    a    few    clarion    names,    or    golden 
threads  of  song? 
Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we;  poor  ghosts  of 

kings, 
Shadows    of    empire    wholly    gone    to 
dust,  280 

And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago. 
To  darkness   driven   by  that  imperious 

gust 
Of  ever-rushing  Time  that  here   doth 

blow: 
O  visionary  world,  condition  strange. 
Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only  Change, 
Where    the    deep-bolted    stars    themselves 
still  shift  and  range ! 
Shall    we    to    more    continuance    make 
pretence? 
Renown  builds  tombs;  a  life-estate  is  Wit; 

And,  bit  by  bit. 
The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but 
woe :  290 

Leaves   are   we,  whose  decays  no  har- 
vest sow. 
But,  when  we  vanish  hence. 
Shall  they  lie  forceless  in  the  dark  be- 
low. 
Save  to  make  green  their  little  length  of 

sods, 
Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who   now   to  us   are    shining-sweet   as 

gods? 
Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do? 
That  were  not   fruitless :  but  the   Soul 

resents 
Such    short-lived    service,    as    if    blind 
events 


340 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Ruled  without  her,   or   earth   could   so 
endure ;  300 

She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 
Of    longer    tenure    than    Fame's    airy 

rents ; 
Whate'er  she  touches  doth  her  nature 

share ; 
Her    inspiration    haunts    the    ennobled 
air, 
Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 
Ears  to  the  deaf   earth,  voices  to  the 

wind, 
And  her  clear  trump  sings  succor  every- 
where 
By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind ; 
For    soul    inherits    all   that    soul    could 
dare: 

Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span  310 
And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 
So  radiant  now  through  proudly-hidden 

tears. 
Is  covered  up  ere  long  from  mortal  eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous 

years ; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all 

men  peers. 
That  leap  of  heart  whereby  a  people 
rise 
Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height. 
And,  flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink, 
but  grow  more  bright, 
That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins,  320 
Of    choosing    danger   and    disdaining 
shame. 
Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  that  flies  all  contact 
base, 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 
These  are  imperishable  gains. 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light. 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty 
reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race. 


Who  now  shall  sneer? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace      330 
Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race? 
Roundhead  and  Cavalier ! 
Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle 

loud; 
Dream- footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear: 
That   is   best   blood   that   hath   most   iron 

in't. 
To    edge    resolve    with,    pouring    without 
stint 


For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,     and     Guelfs,i     whose     thin 
bloods  crawl  340 

Down    from    some    victor    in    a    border- 
brawl  ! 
How  poor  their  outworn  coronets. 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic 

wreath 
Our  brave   for  honor's   blazon  shall  be- 
queath. 
Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation 
sets 
Her   heel    on    treason,    and   the    trumpet 

hears 
Shout    victory,    tingling    Europe's    sullen 
ears 
With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain 
regrets ! 

XI 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride. 
Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude, 
Ever  to  base  earth  allied,  351 

But  with   far-heard  gratitude. 
Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed. 
To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates 
our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head! 
Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 
Not  without  a  martial  ring. 
Not  without  a  prouder  tread 
And  a  peal  of  exultation :  360 

Little  right  has  he  to  sing 
Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 
Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 
Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation ! 
'Tis  no  Man  we  celebrate, 
By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 
But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 
Drawing  force  from  all  her  men. 
Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all,      370 
For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 
Pulsing  it  again  through  them. 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall. 
Touched   but   in   passing  by   her   mantle- 
hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  'tis  her 
dower ! 
How  could  poet  ever  tower, 
If  his  passions,  hopes,  and   fears. 
If  his   triumphs  and  his  tears, 
Kept  not  measure  with  his  people? 
I  The  royal  families  of  Europe. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


341 


Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and 

waves !  381 

Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking 

steeple ! 
Banners,     advance    with     triumph,     bend 

your  staves ! 
And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let    beacon  -  fire    to    answering    beacon 

speak, 
Katahdin    tell    Monadnock,    White facei 

he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 

Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 

Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making    earth    feel    more    firm    and    air 

breathe  braver :  390 

"Be  proud !  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have 

helped  to  save  her ! 
She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the 

poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door. 
With    room    about    her    hearth    for    all 

mankind ! 
The    fire    is    dreadful    in    her    eyes    no 

more; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth 

unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to 

spin. 
And    bids    her    navies,    that    so    lately 

hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thun- 
ders in. 
Swimming  like  birds  of   calm   along  the 

unharmful  shore.  400 

No    challenge    sends    she    to    the    elder 

world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated ;  a  light 

scorn 
Plays    o'er    her    mouth,    as    round    her 

mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits 

the   morn 
Of    nobler    day,    enthroned    between    her 

subject  seas." 


XII 

Bow    down,    dear    Land,    for    thou    hast 
found   release ! 
Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days. 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of 
His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought 
thy  peace ! 
Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise!       410 
T  Mountains  of  New  England. 


No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfran- 
chised brow. 
O    Beautiful!    my    Country!    ours    once 

more! 
Smoothing   thy   gold   of    war-dishevelled 

hair 
O'er   such   sweet   brows    as   never   other 
wore, 
And  letting  thy  set  lips, 
Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse. 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know 
it,  420 

Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  com- 
pare? 
What  were  our  lives  without  thee? 
What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee? 
We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee ; 
We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee. 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare ! 

(i86s) 


A  MATCH 
ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow   together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown   fields  or  flowerful   closes, 2 

Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 

And  love  were  like  the  tune,  10 

With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle. 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 
HI  were  what  the  words  are 

And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 

And  I  your  love  were  death, 
We'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather      20 
With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 
If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 

And  I  your  love  were  death. 

3  closes.     Enclosed  gardens. 


342 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy;  30 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours, 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May.  40 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure. 

And  find  his  mouth  a  rein : 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 

(1866) 

RUGBY  CHAPEL 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

[In  memory  of  the  poet's  father,  Dr.  Thomas 
Arnold,  the  great  head-master  of  Rugby  School, 
who  died  in  1842  and  was  buried  in  the  school 
chapel.] 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 

The  autumn-evening.     The  field 

Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 

Of  withered  leaves,  and  the  elms, 

Fade  into  dimness  apace. 

Silent; — hardly  a  shout 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play ! 

The  lights  come  out  in  the  street, 

In  the  schoolroom  windows; — but  cold. 

Solemn,  unlighted,  austere,  10 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 

The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 

Thou,  my  father !  art  laid. 

There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  autumn  evening.     But  ah! 

That  word  gloom  to  my  mind 

Brings  thee  back  in  the  light 

Of  thy  radiant  vigor  again. 

In  the  gloom  of  November  we  passed 

Days  not  dark  at  thy  side ;  20 


Seasons  impaired  not  the  ray 

Of  thy  buoyant  cheerfulness  clear. 

Such  thou  wast !  and  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  evening,  and  think 

Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee. 

Fifteen  years  have  gone  round 

Since  thou  arosest  to  tread. 

In  the  summer-morning,  the  road 

Of  death,  at  a  call  unforeseen. 

Sudden.    For  fifteen  years,  30 

We  who  till  then  in  thy  shade 

Rested  as  under  the  boughs 

Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 

Sunshine  and  rain  as  we  might. 

Bare,  unshaded,  alone. 

Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee. 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?    For  that  force, 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain ! 
Somewhere,   surely,   afar,  40 

In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firmli 

Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere. 

Conscious  or  not  of  the  past, 

Still  thou  performest  the  word 

Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live. 

Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here ! 

Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 

The  humble  good  from  the  ground,        50 

Sternly  repressest  the  bad; 

Still,  like  a  trumpet,   dost  rouse 

Those  who  with   half-open  eyes 

Tread  the  border-land  dim 

'Twixt  vice  and  virtue;  reviv'st, 

Succorest.    This  was  thy  work, 

This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 

What  is  the  course  of  the  life 

Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth? 

Most  men  eddy  about  60 

Here  and  there — eat  and  drink, 

Chatter  and  love  and  hate, 

Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 

Aloft,  are  hurled  in  the  dust. 

Striving  blindly,  achieving 

Nothing;  and  then  they  die, — 

Perish ;  and  no  one  asks 

Who  or  what  they  have  been. 

More  than  he  asks  what  waves. 

In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild  70 

Of  the  midmost  Ocean,  have  swelled. 

Foamed  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 

I  With  these  lines  compare  Tennyson's  "Welling- 
ton Ode,"  lines  255-58,  page  312. 


LYRICAL  AND  REFLECTIVE  POEMS 


343 


And  there  are  some  whom  a  thirst 

Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires. 

Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent, 

Not  without  aim  to  go  round 

In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 

Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 

Ah  yes !  some  of  us  strive 

Not  without  action  to  die  80 

Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 

From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 

Glut  the  devouring  grave. 

We,  we  have  chosen  our  path, — 

Path  to  a  clear-purposed  goal, 

Path  of  advance;  but  it  leads 

A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 

Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow. 

Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth : 

Then,  on  the  height,  comes  the  storm.    90 

Thunder  crashes  from  rock 

To  rock;  the  cataracts  reply; 

Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes ; 

Roaring  torrents  have  breached 

The  track;  the  stream-bed  descends 

In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 

Planted  his  footstep — the  spray 

Boils  o'er  its  borders !  aloft. 

The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 

Their  hanging  ruin.    Alas,  100 

Havoc  is  made  in  our  train! 

Friends  who  set  forth  at  our  side 

Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm. 

We,  we  only  are  left! 

With  frowning  foreheads,  with  lips 

Sternly  compressed,  we  strain  on, 

On — and  at  nightfall  at  last 

Come  to  the  end  of  our  way. 

To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks; 

Where  the  gaunt  and  taciturn  host       no 

Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind 

Shaking  his  thin  white  hairs, 

Holds  his  lantern  to  scan 

Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks, — 

Whom  in  our  party  we  bring? 

Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow? 

Sadly  we  answer.  We  bring 

Only  ourselves !  we  lost 

Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm. 

Hardly  ourselves  we  fought  through,     120 

Stripped,  without  friends,  as  we  are. 

Friends,  companions,  and  train. 

The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  wouldst  not  alone 
Be  saved,  my  father !  alone 
Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 
Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 
We  were  weary,  and  we 


Fearful,  and  we  in  our  march 
Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die.  130 

Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 
Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand. 
If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world. 
Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet, 
Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 
Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 
Nothing:  to  us  thou  wast  still 
Cheerful,  and  helpful,  and  firm! 
Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given  140 

Many  to  save  with  thyself. 
And,  at  the  end  of  thy  day, 
O  faithful  shepherd,  to  come. 
Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 

And  through  thee  I  believe 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone; 

Pure  souls  honored  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else — 

Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor. 

Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see —  150 

Seemed  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seemed  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes  I    I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past. 

Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd 

Who  all  round  me  to-day 

Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 

Hideous  and  arid  and  vile ; 

But  souls  tempered  with  fire. 

Fervent,  heroic,  and  good,  160 

Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 


Servants  of  God  ! — or  sons 
Shall  I  not  call  you?  because 
Not  as  servants  ye  knew 
Your  Father's  innermost  mind, 
His  who  unwillingly  sees 
One  of  his  little  ones  lost, — 
Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind 
Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 
Fainted  and  fallen  and  died. 


170 


See!     In  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A  feeble,  wavering  line. 

Where  are  they  tending?    A  God 

Marshaled  them,  gave  them  their  goal. 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long ! 

Years  have  they  been  in  the  wild: 

Sore  thirst  plagues  them;  the  rocks, 

Rising  all  round,  overawe; 

Factions  divide  them ;  their  host  180 

Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. 

— Ah  !  keep,  keep  them  combined ! 

Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 


344 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive ; 
Sole  they  shall  stray ;  in  the  rocks 
Stagger   forever   in   vain, 
Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 

Ye  like  angels  appear,  190 

Radiant  v^ith  ardor  divine. 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear! 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 

Weakness  is  not  in  your  word, 

Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 

Ye  alight  in  our  van !  at  your  voice, 

Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 

Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 

The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 

Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave.  200 

Order,  courage,  return; 

Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers, 

Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 

Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 

Strengthen  the  wavering  line, 

Stablish,  continue  our  march, 

On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste. 

On  to  the  City  of  God. 

(1867) 

EAST  LONDON 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

*Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  over- 
head 

Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Bethnal 
Green, 

And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his  window 
seen 

In  Spitalfields,  looked  thrice  dispirited. 

I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said : 

"111  and  o'erworked,  how  fare  you  in  this 
scene  ?" 

"Bravely !"  said  he,  "for  I  of  late  have 
been 

Much  cheered  with  thoughts  of  Christ, 
the  Living  Bread." 

O  human  soul !  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light  10 

Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and  flow, 
To  cheer  thee  and  to  right  thee  if  thou 

roam, 
Not  with  lost  toil  thou  laborest  through 

the  night! 
.Thou  mak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'st  in- 
deed thy  home. 

(1867) 


THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 

[The  closing  portion   of  a  poem  of  twenty-two 
stanzas.] 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain. 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have. 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove;  10 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave. 
And  plead  his  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  his  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  his  love  and  care.  20 

O  brothers !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 

If  hopes  like  these  betray. 
Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 

The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be. 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee ! 

(1867) 


THE  STEAM  THRESHING 
MACHINE 

CHARLES    TENNYSON-TURNER 

Flush    with   the   pond   the   lurid    furnace 

burned 
At  eve,  while  smoke  and  vapor  filled  the 

yard; 
The  gloomy  winter  sky  was  dimly  starred, 
The    fly-wheel    with    a    mellow    murmur 

turned ; 
While,  ever  rising  on  its  mystic  stair 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


345 


In  the   dim  light,   from   secret  chambers 

borne, 
The  straw  of  harvest,  severed  from  the 

corn, 
Climbed,  and  fell  over,  in  the  murky  air. 

I  thought  of  mind  and  matter,  will  and 
law,  9 

And  then  of  him^  who  set  his  stately  seal 
Of  Roman  words  on  all  the  forms  he  saw 
Of  old-world  husbandry :  /  could  but  feel 
With  what  a  rich  precision  he  would  draw 
The  endless  ladder  and  the  booming 
wheel! 

(1868) 

ALADDIN 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy. 

And  lived  in  a  cellar  damp, 
I  had  not  a  friend  nor  a  toy. 

But  I  had  Aladdin's  lamp; 
When  I  could  not  sleep  for  the  cold, 

I  had  fire  enough  in  my  brain, 
And  builded,  with  roofs  of  gold. 

My  beautiful  castles  in  Spain ! 

Since  then  I  have  toiled  day  and  night, 

I  have  money  and  power  good  store,  10 
But  I'd  give  all  my  lamps  of  silver  bright. 

For  the  one  that  is  mine  no  more ; 
Take,  Fortune,  whatever  you  choose, — 

You  gave,  and  may  snatch  again ; 
I  have  nothing  'twould  pain  me  to  lose, 

For  I  own  no  more  castles  in  Spain ! 

(1868) 


LOST   DAYS 

DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day. 
What  were  they,  could  I  see  thera  on  the 

street 
Lie  as  they  fell?    Would  they  be  ears  of 

wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to 

pay? 
Or    drops    of    blood    dabbling    the    guilty 

feet? 
Or   such   spilt  water  as   in   dreams   must 

cheat 

I  Virgil,  who  poetized  Roman    farm-life    in  his 
Ctortics. 


The    undoing    throats    of     Hell,    athirst 
alway? 

I  do  not  see  them  here ;  but  after  death  9 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 
Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last 

breath. 
"I   am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to 

me?" 
"And   I — and   I — thyself,"    (lo!   each   one 

saith,) 
"And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity!" 

(1869) 


LOVESIGHT 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The  worship  gf  that  Love  through  thee 

made  known? 
Or    when    in    the    dusk   hours    (we    two 

alone). 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
Thy    twilight-hidden    glimmering    visage 

lies. 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own? 

O  love,  my  love!  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of 
thee,  10 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  thap  should  sound  upon  Life's  dark- 
ening slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves 

of  Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 

(1870) 


IN    SCHOOL-DAYS 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sleeping ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow. 

And  blackberry-vines  are  creeping. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen. 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial; 


346 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying  lo 

The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving. 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving.      20 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled : 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered; — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 
The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes;  he  felt 

The  soft  hand's  light  caressing,  _         30 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice. 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word: 

I  hate  to  go  above  you. 
Because," — the  brown  eyes  lower  fell, — 

"Because,  you  see,  I  love  you !" 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing!  40 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss. 
Like  her,  because  they  love  him. 

(1870) 

ST.   JOHN    BAPTIST 

ARTHUR    O'SHAUGHNESSY 

I    think   he   had   not    heard    of    the    far 

towns ; 
Nor  of  the  deeds  of  men,  nor  of  kings' 

crowns; 
Before  the  thought  of   God  took   hold 

of  him, 
As  he  was  sitting  dreaming  in  the  cairn 

Of  one  first  noon,  upon  the  desert's  rim. 
Beneath  the  tall  fair  shadows  of  the  palm, 
All  overcome  with   some  strange   inward 

balm. 


He  numbered  not  the  changes  of  the  year, 
The   days,  the  nights,  and  he   forgot  all 

fear 
Of   death:   each   day  he  thought  there 

should  have  been  10 

A  shining  ladder  set  for  him  to  climb 
Athwart  some  opening  in  the  heavens, 

e'en 
To  God's  eternity,  and  see,  sublime — 
His  face  whose  shadow  passing  fills  all 

time. 

But  he  walked  through  the  ancient  wil- 
derness. 

O,  there  the  prints  of  feet  were  number- 
less 
And   holy   all   about   him !     And   quite 
plain 

He  saw  each  spot  an  angel  silver-shod 
Had    lit    upon;    where    Jacob    too    had 
lain 

The  place  seemed  fresh, — and,  bright  and 
lately  trod,  20 

A  long  track  showed  where  Enoch  walked 
with  God.^ 

And    often,    while    the    sacred    darkness 

trailed 
Along  the  mountains  smitten  and  unveiled 
By    rending    lightnings,  —  over    all    the 

noise 
Of   thunders   and   the   earth   that   quaked 

and  bowed 
From  its  foundations — he  could  hear  the 

voice 
Of  great  Elias^  prophesying  loud 
To  Him   whose  face  was  covered  by  a 

cloud. 

(1870) 

DOROTHY  Q. 

A  Family  Portrait 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

[The  portrait  was  an  actual  one,  of  Holmes's 
great-grandmother,  Dorothy  Quincy.  His  own 
note  reads:  "Dorothy  was  the  daughter  of  Judge 
Edmund  Quincy,  and  the  niece  of  Josiah  Quincy. 
Junior,  the  young  patriot  and  orator,  who  died 
just  before  the  American  Revolution.  .  .  .  The 
son  of  the  latter,  Josiah  Quincy,  [was]  the  first 
mayor  of  Boston  bearing  that  name."] 

Grandmother's  mother :  her  age,  I  guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air; 
Smooth,    square    forehead    with    uprolled 
hair, 

1  See  Genesis  28:11  and  5:24. 

2  Elias.  Elijah;  see  i  Kings  19:11-14  and 
Matthew  17:10-13. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


347 


Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed; 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist ; 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 
Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene.  lo 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view, — 
Look !    there's    a    rent    the    light    shines 

through, 
Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust, — 
That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell, — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright,      21 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white. 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn, — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born ! 
Ay !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town^ 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown,     30 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won. 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

O  Damsel  Dorothy !  Dorothy  Q. ! 
Strange  is  this  gift  that  I  owe  to  you ; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son   might  bring, — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand. 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago  41 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 
When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 
That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name. 
And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 
The    bodice    swelled    with    the    bosom's 

thrill? 
Should  I  be  1,  or  would  it  be 
One-tenth  another,  to  nine-tenths  me? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes : 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs   with   less ;   50 
But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 
I  Boston. 


And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long! 
There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whis- 
pered then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover, — and  here  we  are. 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone, — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's — all  their  own, — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show        61 
Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago! — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid ! 

1  will    heal   the   stab   of    the    Red-Coat's 

blade, 
And    freshen   the   gold   of   the   tarnished 

frame, 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household 

name; 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light. 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears   71 
Through   a   second  youth   of   a   hundred 

years. 

(1871) 


MY   STRAWBERRY* 

HELEN    HUNT    JACKSON 

0  marvel,  fruit  of  fruits,  I  pause 
To  reckon  thee.     I  ask  what  cause 
Set  free  so  much  of  red  from  heats 

At  core  of  earth,  and  mixed  such  sweets 
With    sour    and    spice :    what    was    that 

strength 
Which  out  of  darkness,  length  by  length, 
Spun  all  thy  shining  thread  of  vine. 
Netting  the  fields  in  bond  as  thine. 

1  see  thy  tendrils  drink  by  sips 

From  grass  and  clover's  smiling  lips;     10 
I  hear  thy  roots  dig  down  for  wells. 
Tapping  the  meadow's  hidden  cells; 
Whole  generations  of  green  things. 
Descended  from  long  lines  of  springs, 
I  see  make  room  for  thee  to  bide 
A  quiet  comrade  by  their  side; 
I  see  the  creeping  peoples  go 
Mysterious  journeys  to   and    fro. 
Treading  to  right  and  left  of  thee. 
Doing  thee  homage  wonderingiy.  20 

•  Copyright,    1873,    by    Little,    Brown    &    Com- 
pany.    Reprinted   by  special  permission. 


348 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


I  see  the  wild  bees  as  they  fare, 
Thy  cups  of  honey  drink,  but  spare. 
I  mark  thee  bathe  and  bathe  again 
In  sweet  uncalendared  spring  rain. 
I  watch  how  all  May  has  of  sun 
Makes  haste  to  have  thy  ripeness  done, 
While  all  her  nights  let  dews  escape 
To  set  and  cool  thy  perfect   shape. 
Ah,  fruit  of  fruits,  no  more  I  pause 
To  dream  and  seek  thy  hidden  laws !     30 
I  stretch  my  hand  and  dare  to  taste. 
In  instant  of  delicious  waste 
On  single  feast,  all  things  that  went 
To  make  the  empire  thou  hast  spent. 

(1873) 

SONG  OF  PALMS 

ARTHUR    O'SHAUGHNESSY 

[The     second    half    of     the     original    poem     is 
omitted.] 

Mighty,  luminous,  and  calm 
Is  the  country  of  the  palm. 

Crowned  with   sunset  and  sunrise, 

Under  blue  unbroken  skies, 
Waving  from  green  zone  to  zone. 
Over  wonders  of  its  own ; 
Trackless,  untraversed,  unknown. 

Changeless  through  the  centuries. 

Who  can  say  what  thing  it  bears? 

Blazing  bird  and  blooming  flower,     10 
Dwelling  there  for  years  and  years. 

Hold  the  enchanted  secret  theirs : 
Life  and  death  and  dream  have  made 
Mysteries  in  many  a  shade. 
Hollow  haunt  and  hidden  bower 
Closed  alike  to  sun  and  shower. 

Who  is  ruler  of  each  race 
Living  in  each  boundless  place. 
Growing,  flowering,  and  flying. 
Glowing,  reveling,  and  dying?  20 

Wave-like,  palm  by  palm  is  stirred. 
And  the  bird  sings  to  the  bird. 
And  the  day  sings  one  rich  word, 
And  the  great  night  comes  replying. 

(1874) 

ODE 
ARTHUR    O'SHAUGHNESSY 

We  are  the  music-makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone   sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams ; 


World-losers  and  world- forsakers, 
On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams : 

Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 
Of  the  world  forever,  it  seems. 

With   wonderful   deathless   ditties 

We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities,       10 

And  out  of   a   fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory : 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure. 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown ; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  a  kingdom  down. 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  in  our  mirth;  20 

And  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth; 
For  each   age   is   a  dream  that  is   dying. 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 

A  breath  of  our  inspiration 
Is  life  of  each  generation; 

A  wondrous  thing  of  our  dreaming, 

Unearthly,  impossible  seeming — 
The  soldier,  the  king,  and  the  peasant 

Are  working  together  in  one,  30 

Till  our  dream  shall  become  their  present, 

And  their  work  in  the  world  be  done. 

They  had  no  vision  amazing 

Of  the  goodly  house  they  are  raising; 

They  had  no  divine  foreshowing 

Of  the  land  to  which  they  are  going; 
But  on  one  man's  soul  it  hath  broken, 

A  light  that  doth  not  depart; 
And  his  look,  or  a  word  he  hath  spoken, 

Wrought  flame  in  another  man's  heart. 

And  therefore  to-day  is  thrilling  41 

With  a  past  day's  late  fulfilling; 

And  the  multitudes  are  enlisted 

In  the  faith  that  their  fathers  resisted. 
And,  scorning  the  dream  of  to-morrow, 

Are  bringing  to  pass,  as  they  may, 
In  the  world,   for  its  joy  or  its  sorrow, 

The  dream  that  was  scorned  yesterday. 

But  we,  with  our  dreaming  and  singing, 

Ceaseless  and  sorrowless  we !  50 

The  glory  about  us  clinging 

Of  the  glorious  futures  we  see, 
Our  souls  with  high  music  ringing: 

O  men !  it  must  ever  be 
That  we  dwell,  in  our  dreaming  and  sing- 
ing, 

A  little  apart  from  ye. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


349 


For  we  are  afar  with  the  dawning 

And  the  suns  that  are  not  yet  high, 
And  out  of  the  infinite  morning 

Intrepid  you  hear  us  cry —  60 

How,  spite  of  your  human  scorning, 

Once  more  God's  future  draws  nigh. 
And   already  goes    forth   the   warning 

That  ye  of  the  past  must  die. 

Great  hail !  we  cry  to  the  comers 

From  the  dazzling  unknown  shore; 
Bring  us  hither  your  sun  and  your  sum- 
mers, 

And  renew  our  world  as  of  yore  ; 
You  shall  teach  us  your  song's  new  num- 
bers; 69 

And  things  that  we  dreamed  not  before : 
Yea,  in  spite  of  a  dreamer  who  slumbers. 

And  a  singer  who  sings  no  more. 

(1874) 


THE  REASON  WHY 

FREDERICK   LOCKER-LAMPSON 

Ask  why  I  love  the  roses  fair. 

And  whence  they  come  and  whose  they 

were; 
They  come  from  her,  and  not  alone, — 
They  bring  her  sweetness  with  their  own. 

Or  ask  me  why  I  love  her  so ; 
I  know  not :  this  is  all  I  know. 
These  roses  bud  and  bloom,  and  twine 
As  she  round  this  fond  heart  of  mine. 

And  this  is  why  I  love  the  flowers, 
Once  they  were  hers,  they're  mine — they're 
ours !  10 

I  love  her,  and  they  soon  will  die, 
And  now  you  know  the  Reason  Why. 

(1874) 


NATURE 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er. 
Leads   by   the  hand  her  little   child   to 

bed, 
Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led. 
And  leave  his   broken  playthings   on  the 

floor. 
Still    gazing   at    them    through    the    open 
door, 


Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 

By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 

Which,    though    more    splendid,    may    not 

please  him  more; 
So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the 
hand  10 

Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay. 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the 
what  we  know. 

(1875) 


A  LATE  LARK  TWITTERS 

WILLIAM    ERNEST    HENLEY 

[This  poem  is  sometimes  entitled  "Margaritre 
Sorori"  ("To  my  Sister  Margaret"),  being  thus 
dedicated  in  Henley's  collected  poems.] 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies; 

And  from  the  west. 

Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended, 

Lingers  as  in  content. 

There  falls  on  the  old,  gray  city 

An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 

A  shining  peace. 

The  smoke  ascends 
In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.    The  spires 
Shine,  and  are  changed.     In  the  valley  10 
Shadows  rise.     The  lark  sings  on.     The 

sun, 
Closing  his  benediction. 
Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 
Thrills   with   a   sense   of   the   triumphing 

night — 
Night  with  her  train  of  stars 
And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing! 

My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day 

done, 
My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 
Some  late  lark  singing,  20 

Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  West, 
The  sundown  splendfd  and  serene, 
Death. 

(1876) 


350 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


TO  THE   MAN-OF-WAR   BIRD* 

WALT    WHITMAN 

[The  "frigate-bird,"  or  petrel,  is  distinguished 
for  its  size,  swiftness,  and  endurance — never 
alighting  to   rest   on   the   water.] 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the 
storm, 

Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pin- 
ions 

(Burst  the  wild  storm?  above  it  thou  as- 
cended'st, 

And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that 
cradled  thee), 

Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  float- 
ing, 

As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I 
watch  thee 

(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's 
floating  vast). 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn 

the  shore  with  wrecks. 
With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy 

and  serene,  lo 

The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,   the  flashing 

sun. 
The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 
Thou  also  re-appearest. 


Thou  born  to  match  the  gale   (thou  art 

all  wings), 
To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea 

and  hurricane, 
Thou  ship  of  air  that  never   furl'st  thy 

sails, 
Days,   even   weeks   untired   and  onward, 

through  spaces,  realms  gyrating, 
At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,^  at  morn 

America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and 

thunder-cloud, 
In   them,    in  thy   experience,   had'st   thou 

my  soul,  20 

What  joys!  what  joys  were  thine! 

(1876) 

*  Reprinted      by      special      arrangement      with 
Doubleday,    Page   &   Co. 
I  Senegal.     In  West  Africa. 


A   BALLADE   OF   DREAMLAND 

ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 

[The  Ballade  is  an  old  French  form,  built 
wholly  on  three  rhyme-sounds,  repeated  accord- 
ing to  the  scheme  followed  in  this  poem.  The 
"envoi"  was  originally  a  concluding  address  to 
the  poet's  prince   or  patron.] 

I  hid  my  heart  in  a  nest  of  roses. 

Out  of  the  sun's  way,  hidden  apart; 
In  a  softer  bed  than  the  soft  white  snow's 
is, 
Under  the  roses  I  hid  my  heart. 
Why  would  it  sleep  not?  why  should  it 
start, 
When    never    a    leaf    of    the    rose-tree 
stirred? 
What  made  sleep  flutter  his  wings  and 
part? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

Lie  still,  I  said,  for  the  wind's  wing  closes, 

And  mild  leaves  muffle  the  keen  sun's 

dart;  10 

Lie  still,   for  the  wind  on  the  warm  sea 

dozes. 

And  the  wind  is  unquieter  yet  than  thou 

art. 
Does  a  thought  in  thee  still  as  a  thorn's 
wound  smart? 
Does  the  fang  still  fret  thee  of  hope  de- 
ferred ? 
What  bids  the  lips  of  thy  sleep  dispart? 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

The  green  land's  name  that  a  charm  en- 
closes, 
It  never  was  writ  in  the  traveller's  chart. 
And  sweet  on  its  trees  as  the  fruit  that 
grows  is. 
It  never  was  sold  in  the  merchant's  mart. 
The    swallows    of    dreams    through    its 
dim  fields  dart,  21 

And  sleep's  are  the  tunes  in  its  tree-tops 
heard; 
No  hound's  note  wakens  the  wildwood 
hart, 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 


ENVOI 

In  the  world  of  dreams  I  have  chosen 
my  part, — 

To  sleep  for  a  season  and  hear  no  word 
Of  true  love's  truth  or  of  light  love's  art, 

Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

(1876) 


LYRICAL  AND  REFLECTIVE  POEMS 


351 


WHEN  I  SAW  YOU  LAST,  ROSE 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

[The  form  of  this  poem  is  the  old  French 
villanelle,  based  on  only  two  rhyme-sounds,  with 
the  first  and  third  lines  later  repeated  thrice  as 
a   kind   of  double   refrain.] 

When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose, 
You  were  only  so  high; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 

Like  a  bud  ere  it  blows. 

You  just  peeped  at  the  sky, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose! 

Now  your  petals  unclose, 

Now  your  May-time  is  nigh; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 


10 


And  a  life, — how  it  grows! 
You  were  scarcely  so  shy 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose! 

In  your  bosom  it  shows 

There's  a  guest  on  the  sly; 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 

Is  it  Cupid?     Who  knows! 
Yet  you  used  not  to  sigh, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose;- 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 

(1877) 


THE  TOYS 

COVENTRY    PATMORE 

My  little  Son,  who  looked  from  thought- 
ful eyes 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up 
wise. 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  diso- 
beyed, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismissed 

With  hard  words  and  unkissed, — 

His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder 
sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep. 

With  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes 
yet  10 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my 
own; 


For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head. 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-veined  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach. 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells, 

And    two    French    copper    coins,    ranged 

there  with  careful  art,  20 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  prayed 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said : 
Ah,    when   at   last    we    lie   with    tranced 

breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death. 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys. 
How  weakly  understood 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 
Then,  fatherly  not  less  30 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from 

the  clay, 
Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
"I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

(1877) 


WINTER  IN  NORTHUMBERLAND 

ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 

[Four    stanzas   are   omitted.] 

Outside  the  garden 
The  wet  skies  harden. 
The  gates  are  barred  on 

The  summer  side : 
"Shut  out  the  flower-time, 
Sunbeam  and  shower-time; 
Make  way  for  our  time," 

Wild  winds  have  cried. 
Green  once  and  cheery, 
The  woods,  worn  weary,  10 

Sigh  as  the  dreary 

Weak  sun  goes  home : 
A  great  wind  grapples 
The  wave,  and  dapples 
The  dead  green  floor  of  the  sea  with  foam. 

Through  Fell  and  moorland, 
And  salt-sea  foreland. 
Our  noisy  norland 

Resounds  and  rings; 
Waste  waves  thereunder  20 

Are  blown  in  sunder 
And  winds  make  thunder 

With  cloud-wide  wings. 
Sea-drift  makes  dimmer 
The  beacon's  glimmer; 
Nor  sail  nor  swimmer 


352 


POEMS    OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


Can  try  the  tides; 
And   snowdrifts  thicken 
Where,  when  leaves  quicken, 
Under  the  heather  the  sundew  hides.    30 

Green  land  and  red  land, 
Moorside  and  headland. 
Are  white  as  dead  land, 

Are  all  as  one; 
Nor  honied  heather, 
Nor  bells  to  gather. 
Fair  with  fair  weather 

And  faithful  sun: 
Fierce  frost  has  eaten 
All  flowers  that  sweeten  40 

The  fells  rain-beaten ; 

And  winds  their  foes 
Have  made  the  snow's  bed 
Down  in  the  rose-bed  ; 
Deep  in  the  snow's  bed  bury  the  rose. 

Bury  her  deeper 

Than  any  sleeper; 

Sweet  dreams  will  keep  her 

All  day,  all  night; 
Though  sleep  benumb  her,  50 

And  time  o'ercome  her. 
She  dreams  of  summer, 

And  takes  delight, 
Dreaming  and  sleeping 
In  love's  good  keeping. 
While  rain  is  weeping 

And  no  leaves  cling; 
Winds  will  come  bringing  her 
Comfort,  and  singing  her 
Stories  and  songs  and  good  news  of  the 

spring.  60 

Draw  the  white  curtain 
Close,  and  be  certain 
She  takes  no  hurt  in 

Her  soft  low  bed; 
She  feels  no  colder. 
And  grows  not  older. 
Though  snows  enfold  her 

From  foot  to  head; 
She  turns  not  chilly 

Like  weed  and  lily  70 

In  marsh  or  hilly 

High  watershed, 
Or  green   soft  island 
In  lakes  of  highland; 
She  sleeps  awhile,  and  she  is  not  dead. 

For  all  the  hours. 
Come  sun,  come  showers. 
Are  friends  of  flowers. 
And  fairies  all; 


When  frost  entrapped  her,  80 

They  came  and  lapped  her 
In  leaves,  and  wrapped  her 

With  shroud  and  pall; 
In  red  leaves  wound  her, 
With  dead  leaves  bound  her 
Dead  brows,  and  round  her 

A  death-knell  rang; 
Rang  the  death-bell  for  her, 
Sang  "Is  it  well  for  her, 
Well,   is   it   well    with    you,   rose?"   they 

sang.  90 

Each  reed  that  grows  in 
Our  stream  is  frozen. 
The  fields  it  flows  in 

Are  hard  and  black; 
The  water-fairy 
Waits  wise  and  wary 
Till  time  shall  vary 

And  thaws  come  back, 
"O  sister,  water," 

The  wind  besought  her,  100 

"O  twin-born  daughter 

Of  spring  with  me, 
Stay  with  me,  play  with  me. 
Take  the  warm  way  with  me. 
Straight  for  the  summer  and  oversea." 

But  winds  will  vary, 
And  wise  and  wary 
The  patient  fairy 

Of  water  waits; 
All  shrunk  and  wizen,  no 

In  iron  prison. 
Till  spring  re-risen 

Unbar  the  gates; 
Till,  as  with  clamor 
Of  axe  and  hammer. 
Chained  streams  that  stammer 

And  struggle  in  straits 
Burst  bonds  that  shiver. 
And  thaws  deliver 
The  roaring  river  in  stormy  spates.^     120 

As  men's  cheeks  faded 
On  shores  invaded. 
When  shorewards  waded 

The  lords  of  fight; 
When  churl  and  craven 
Saw  hard  on  haven 
The  wide-winged  raven 

At  mainmast  height ; 
When  monks  affrighted 
To  windward  sighted  130 

The  birds  full-flighted 
1  spates.     Freshets. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


353 


Of  swift  sea-kings  ;i 
So  earth  turns  paler 
When  Storm  the  sailor 
Steers  in  with  a  roar  in  the  race  of  his 

wings. 

O  strong  sea-sailor, 
Whose  cheeks  turn  paler 
For  wind  or  hail  or 

For  fear  of  thee? 
O  far  sea-farer,  140 

O  thunder-bearer, 
Thy  songs  are  rarer 

Than  soft  songs  be. 
O  fleet- foot  stranger, 
O  north-sea  ranger 
Through  days  of  danger 

And  ways  of  fear, 
Blow  thy  horn  here  for  us, 
Blow  the  sky  clear  for  us. 
Send  us  the  song  of  the  sea  to  hear.      150 

O  stout  north-easter, 
Sea-king,  land-waster. 
For  all  thine  haste  or 

Thy  stormy  skill, 
Yet  hadst  thou  never. 
For  all  endeavor, 
Strength  to  dissever 

Or  strength  to  spill. 
Save  of  his  giving 

Who  gave  our  living,  160 

Whose  hands  are  weaving 

What  ours  fulfill; 
Whose  feet  tread  under 
The  storms  and  thunder. 
Who  made  our  wonder  to  work  his  will. 

His  years  and  hours. 
His  world's  blind  powers, 
His  stars  and  flowers, 

His  nights  and  days. 
Sea-tide  and  river,  170 

And  waves  that  shiver. 
Praise  God,  the  Giver 

Of  tongues  to  praise. 
Winds  in  their  blowing, 
And  fruits  in  growing, 
Time  in  its  going. 

While  time  shall  be, 
In  death  and  living, 
\Vith  pne   thanksgiving. 
Praise  him  whose  hand  is  the  strength  of 

the  sea.  jgo 

(1878) 
I  The  Danish  invaders  of  early  England. 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  CITIES 

EDMUND    GOSSE 

[For  the  ballade  form,  see  note  on  page  350. 
Here  the  writer  has  in  mind  Villon's  famous 
ballade  on  Dead  Ladies,  with  the  refrain,  "Where 
arc  the  snows  of  yester-year?"] 

Where  are  the  cities  of  the  plain? 

And  where  the  shrines  of  rapt  Bethel  ?i 
And  Calah2  built  of  Tubal-Cain? 

And  Shinars  whence  King  Amraphel 

Came  out  in  arms,  and  fought,  and  fell, 
Decoyed  into  the  pits  of  slime 

By  Siddim,  and  sent  sheer  to  hell; 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

Where  now  is  Karnak,^  that  great  fane 

With  granite  built,  a  miracle?  lo 

And  Luxor  smooth  without  a  stain, 

Whose  graven  scriptures  still  we  spell? 

The  jackal  and  the  owl  may  tell. 
Dark  snakes  around  their  ruins  climb, 

They  fade  like  echo  in  a  shell; 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

And  where  is  white  Shusan.s  again, 
Where  Vashti's  beauty  bore  the  bell, 

And  all  the  Jewish  oil  and  grain 
Were  brought  to  Mithridath  to  sell,  20 
Where  Nehemiahe  would  not  dwell, 

Because  another  town  sublime 
Decoyed  him  with  her  oracle? 

Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 


ENVOY 

Prince,  with  a  dolorous,  ceaseless  knell, 
Above  their  wasted  toil  and  crime 

The  waters  of  oblivion  swell : 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time? 

(1879) 

ULTIMA  VERITAS 

WASHINGTON    GLADDEN 
[The   title  means  "Final   Truth."] 

In  the  bitter  waves  of  woe. 

Beaten  and  tossed  about 
By  the  sullen  winds  that  blow 

From  the  desolate  shores  of  doubt, — 

r  shrines  of  Bethel.    See  i  Kings  12:28-33;  13:1-5. 
7  Calah.     See  Genesis   10:11;  the  poet  confuses 
Tubal-Cain  and  Nimrod. 

3  Shinar.  .  .  Siddim.     See  Genesis  14:1-10. 

4  Karnak.  .  .  Luxor.     Finely    sculptured    cities 
of  ancient  Egypt. 

5  Shusan.     See  Esther  1:5-11. 

6  Nehemiah.     See  Nehemiah  1:1;  2:1-5. 


354 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


While  the  anchors  that  faith  had  cast 

Are  dragging  in  the  gale, 
I  am  quietly  holding  fast 

To  the  things  that  cannot  fail. 

I  know  that  right  is  right, 

That  it  is  not  good  to  lie ;  lo 

That  love  is  better  than  spite, 

And  a  neighbor  than  a  spy ; 

I  know  that  passion  needs 

The  leash  of  a  sober  mind; 
I  know  that  generous  deeds 

Some  sure  reward  will  find; 

That  the  rulers  must  obey; 

That  the  givers  shall  increase; 
That  Duty  lights  the  way 

For  the  beautiful  feet  of  Peace; —    20 

In  the  darkest  night  of  the  year. 
When  the  stars  have  all  gone  out, 

That  courage  is  better  than  fear. 
That  faith  is  truer  than  doubt; 

And  fierce  though  the  fiends  may  fight, 
And  long  though  the  angels  hide, 

I  know  that  Truth  and  Right 
Have  the  universe  on  their  side; 

And  that  somewhere,  beyond  the  stars, 
Is  a  Love  that  is  better  than  fate;      30 

When  the  night  unlocks  her  bars 
I  shall  see  Him,  and  I  will  wait. 

(1879) 


THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN 

SIDNEY    LANIER 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided 

and  woven 
With   intricate   shades  of  the  vines   that 
myriad-cloven 
Clamber    the    forks    of    the    multiform 
boughs, — 

Emerald  twilight, — 
Virginal  shy  lights. 
Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the 

whisper  of  vows. 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through 

the  green  colonnades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark 
woods. 
Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades. 
That  run  to  the  radiant   marginal   sand- 
beach  within  10 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn; — 


Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon- 
day fire, — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  de- 
sire, 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wav- 
ering arras  of  leaves, — 

Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer 
to  the  soul  that  grieves. 

Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints 
through  the  wood. 

Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with 
good  ;— 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven 

shades  of  the  vine. 
While  the   riotous   noon-day   sun   of   the 

June-day  long  did  shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held 

you  fast  in  mine ;  20 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and 

riot  is  rest. 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous 

gate  of  the  West, 
And    the    slant    yellow    beam    down    the 

wood-aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from 

a  dream, — 
Ay,    now,    when    my    soul    all    day    hath 

drunken  the  soul  of  the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and 

the  wearisome  sound  of  the  stroke 
Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of 

trade  is  low, 
And   belief   overmasters    doubt,    and   I 

know  that  I  know. 
And   my   spirit    is    grown    to    a    lordly 

great  compass  within. 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the 

sweep  of  the  Marshes  of  Glynn       30 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they 

have  wrought  me  of  yore 
When    length    was     fatigue,    and    when 

breadth  was  but  bitterness  sore. 
And     when     terror     and     shrinking     and 

dreary  unnamable  pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles 

of  the  plain, — 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain^  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I 

am  drawn. 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs, 
as  a  belt  of  the  dawn. 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest-dark  : —  40 

I  fain.     Glad. 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


355 


So: 
Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 
Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  rev- 
erent hand 
(Not   lightly   touching   your   person,    lord 

of  the  land!). 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I 

stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand. 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world 

of  sea. 
Sinuous  southward  artd  sinuous  north- 
ward the  shimmering  band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of 

the  marsh  to  the  folds  of  the  land.  50 
Inward    and   outward   to    northward   and 

southward  the  beach-lines  linger  and 

curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings 

to  and  follows  the  firm  sweet  limbs 

of  a  girl. 
Vanishing,    swerving,    evermore    curving 

again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a 

dim  gray  looping  of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the 

wall  of  the  woods  stands  high? 
The  world  lies  east :  how  ample,  the  marsh 

and  the  sea  and  the  sky ! 
A  league  and  a   league   of   marsh-grass, 

waist-high,  broad  in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked 

with  a  light  or  a  shade. 
Stretch  leisurely  off,   in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main.  60 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the 

terminal  sea? 
Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of   fate  and  the  sad 

discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length   and   the  breadth   and  the 

sweep  of  the  marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and 

nothing-withholding  and    free 
Ye    publish    yourselves    to    the    sky    and 

offer  yourselves  to  the  sea ! 
Tolerant   plains,   that   suffer  the   sea   and 

the  rains  and  the  sun. 
Ye  spread  and  span   like   a  catholic   man 

who  hath  mightily  won 
God  out  of  knowledge   and  good  out  of 

infinite   pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out 

of  a  stain.  70 


As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the 

watery  sod, 
Behold   I    will    build    me   a    nest   on   the 

greatness  of  God : 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the 

marsh-hen  flies 
In   the    freedom    that    fills    all    the    space 

'twixt  the  marsh  and  the  skies : 
By   so    many    roots    as    the    marsh-grass 

sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  great- 
ness of  God : 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the 

greatness  within 
The    range    of    the    marshes,    the    liberal 

marshes  of  Glynn. 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh:  lo, 

out  of  his  plenty  the  sea 
Pours    fast :    full    soon   the   time   of   the 

flood-tide  must  be  :  80 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go. 
About    and    about    through    the    intricate 

channels   that   flow 
Here  and  there. 
Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost 

creeks  and  the  low-lying  lanes. 
And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million 

veins. 
That   like   as   with    rosy   and    silvery   es- 
sences flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 
Farewell,  my  lord   Sun ! 
The  creeks  overflow ;  a  thousand  rivulets 

run  90 

'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades  of 

the  marsh-grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that 

westward  whirr; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents 

cease  to  run ; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height : 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will 

the  waters  of  sleep 
Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men,  100 

But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 
The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that 

creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep? 


356 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swim- 
meth  below  when  the  tide  comes  in 

On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  mar- 
vellous marshes  of  Glynn. 

(1879) 


LONDON   SNOW 

ROBERT    BRIDGES 

When  men  were  all  asleep  the  snow  came 

flying, 
In  large  white  flakes  falling  on  the  city 

brown. 
Stealthily    and    perpetually    settling    and 

loosely  lying, 
Hushing  the  latest  traffic  of  the  drowsy 

town ; 
Deadening,  muffling,  stifling  its  murmurs 

failing; 
Lazily  and  incessantly  floating  down  and 

down : 
Silently  sifting  and  veiling  road,  roof, 

and  railing; 
Hiding     difference,     making     unevenness 

even, 
Into   angles   and  crevices   softly   drifting 

and  sailing. 
All  night  it  fell,  and  when  full  inches 

seven  10 

It  lay  in  the   depth   of   its   uncompacted 

lightness. 
The    clouds   blew   off    from    a   high    and 

frosty  heaven; 
And  all  woke  earlier  for  the  unaccus- 
tomed brightness 
Of  the  winter  dawning,  the  strange  un- 

heavenly  glare : 
The    eye    marvelled  —  marvelled    at    the 

dazzling  whiteness; 
The  ear  hearkened   to  the   stillness  of 

the  solemn  air; 
No  sound  of  wheel  rumbling  nor  of  foot 

falling, 
And   the   busy    morning  cries   came   thin 

and  spare. 
Then   boys   I    heard,    as   they   went   to 

school,  calling; 
They  gathered  up  the   crystal   manna   to 

freeze  20 

Their   tongues   with   tasting,   their    hands 

with  snowballing; 
Or    rioted   in   a    drift,    plunging   up    to 

the  knees ; 


Or    peering    up    from    under    the    white- 
mossed  wonder, 

"O    look    at    the    trees !"    they    cried,    "O 
look  at  the  trees !" 
With  lessened  load   a   few  carts  creak 
and  blunder. 

Following  along  the  white  deserted  way. 

A      country      company      long      dispersed 
asunder : 
When  now  already  the  sun,  in  pale  dis- 
play 

Standing  by   Paul's^   high   dome,   spread 
forth   below 

His  sparkling  beams,  and  awoke  the  stir 
of  the  day.  30 

For  now  doors  open,  and  war  is  waged 
with  the  snow ; 

And  trains  of  sombre  men,  past  tale  of 
number, 

Tread  long  brown  paths,  as  toward  their 
toil  they  go: 
But  even  for  them  awhile  no  cares  en- 
cumber 

Their  minds  diverted ;  the  daily  word  is 
unspoken. 

The  daily  thoughts  of  labor  and  sorrow 
slumber 

At   the   sight   of   the   beauty   that   greets 
them,  for  the  charm  they  have  broken. 

(1880) 

O  YOUTH  WHOSE  HOPE  IS  HIGH 

ROBERT    BRIDGES 

O  youth  whose  hope  is  high, 
Who  dost  to  Truth  aspire, 
Whether  thou  live  or  die, 
O  look  not  back  nor  tire. 

Thou  that  art  bold  to  fly 
Through  tempest,  flood,  and  fire, 
Nor  dost  not  shrink  to  try 
Thy  heart  in  torments  dire : 


If  thou  canst  Death  defy, 
If  thy  Faith  is  entire. 
Press  onward,  for  thine  eye 
Shall  see  thy  heart's  desire. 

Beauty  and  love  are  nigh, 
And  with  their  deathless  choir 
Soon  shall  thine  eager  cry 
Be  numbered  and  expire. 

(1880) 

1:  Paul's.     St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 


10 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


357 


A   BALLAD   OF   TREES    AND   THE 
MASTER 

SIDNEY    LANIER 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came. 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him  : 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 
And  He  was  well  content.  lo 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 
Content  with  death  and  shame. 
When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him 

last. 
From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last : 
'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him — last 
When  out  of  the  woods  he  came. 

(1881) 


A   SONG  OF  TO-DAY 
MARY   A.    LATHBURY 

Sing  paeans  over  the  Past! 
We  bury  the  dead  years  tenderly, 
To  find  them  again  in  eternity; 

All  safe  in  its  circle  vast, 

Sing  paeans  over  the  Past ! 

Farewell,  farewell  to  the  old ! 

Beneath  the  arches,  and  one  by  one. 
From  sun  to  shade,  and  from  shade  to 
sun. 

We  pass,  and  the  years  are  told; 

Farewell,  farewell  to  the  old !  10 

And  hail,  all  hail  to  the  new! 
The  future  lies  like  a  world  new-born, 
All   steeped  in  sunshine   and   mists   of 
mom, 

And  arched  with  a  cloudless  blue : 

All  hail,  all  hail  to  the  new ! 

All  things,  all  things  are  yours ! 
The  spoil  of  nations,  the  arts  sublime 
That  arch  the  ages  from  eldest  time. 

The  Word  that  for  aye  endures ; 

All  things,  all  things  are  yours !  20 


Arise,  and  conquer  the  land ! 

Not  one  shall  fail  in  the  march  of  life, 
Not  one  shall  fall  in  the  hour  of  strife, 

Who  trusts  in  the  Lord's  right  hand. 

Arise,  and  conquer  the  land ! 

The  Lord  shall  sever  the  sea ! 
And  open  a  way  in  the  wilderness. 
To  faith  that  follows,  to  feet  that  press 

On  into  the  great  To-Be : 

The  Lord  shall  sever  the  sea !  30 

(1882) 


"HOLLOW-SOUNDING  AND 
MYSTERIOUS" 

CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI 

There's  no  replying 

To  the  Wind's  sighing; 

Telling,  foretelling. 

Dying,  undying. 

Dwindling  and  swelling. 

Complaining,  droning. 

Whistling  and  moaning. 

Ever  beginning. 

Ending,  repeating. 

Hinting  and  dinning,  10 

Lagging  and  fleeting; — 

We've  no  replying 

Living  or  dying 

To  the  Wind's  sighing. 

What  are  you  telling, 

Variable  Wind-tone? 

What  would  be  teaching, 

O  sinking,  swelling. 

Desolate  Wind-moan? 

Ever  for  ever  20 

Teaching  and  preaching. 

Never,  ah  never 

Making  us  wiser. 

The  earliest  riser 

Catches  no  meaning, 

The  last  who  barkens 

Garners  no  gleaning 

Of  wisdom's  treasure. 

While  the  world  darkens. 

Living  or  dying,  30 

In  pain,  in  pleasure. 

We've  no  replying 

To  wordless,  flying 

Wind's  sighing. 


(1882) 


358 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH   RACE 


THE  WAY  TO  ARCADY 

HENRY    CUYLER    BUNNER 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry  T 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree, — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through, — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light.  lo 

They  bloAV  an  old-time  way  for  me, 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat. 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune. 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon? 
Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side. 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 
I'll  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red,  20 

If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  hound  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  zvith  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 

And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  /  do  not  know: 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers — 
Through    summer    seconds    and    winter 
hours,  30 

I've  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long. 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song. 
That  tells  me  I  cannot  go  wrong. 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  he 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing? 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time, — 
There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance    back    to    the    trick    of 
rhyme.  40 

'Tis  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he), 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody? 


What,   know   you   not,   old   man    (quoth 
he),— 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  zvise,— 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  mortal's  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady? 

J^o  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there; 

But  beggared  Love  may  go  all  bare —      50 

No  wisdom  zvon  with  weariness; 

But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly's  dress — 

No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win; 

But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 

Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got. 
And    fame   and   name,    and   great   men's 
praise ; 

But  Love,  ah  Love !  I  have  it  not. 
There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new —  60 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot — 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue; 

But  Love — I   fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  Love,  ah  Love !  and  Arcady. 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), — 
My  way's  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me;  70 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair, 
What  love  have  you  to  lead  you  there, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady? 

Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare; 

My  true  companion's  Memory. 
With  love  he  fills  the  Spring-time  air; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound 

My    song    goes    straight    to    one    who 
stands, — 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound, —  80 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 
To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 

The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 
Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), — 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yon's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  yon's  the  zvay  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry.  90 


(1884) 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


359 


THE  MILKMAID 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

Across  the  grass  I  see  her  pass ; 

She   comes   with  tripping  pace, — 
A  maid  I  know, — and  March  winds  blow 
Her  hair  across  her  face; — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly !  ho,  Dolly ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 


The  March  winds  blow.    I  watch  her  go: 
Her  eye  is  brown  and  clear;  lo 

Her  cheek  is  brown,  and  soft  as  down, 
(To  those  who  see  it  near!)  — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly !  ho,  Dolly ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

What  has  she  not  that  those  have  got, — 

The  dames  that  walk  in  silk! 
If  she  undo  her  'kerchief  blue 
Her  neck  is  white  as  milk.  20 

With  a  hey,  Dolly!  ho,  Dolly! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine, 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

Let  those  who  will  be  proud  and  chill! 

For  me,  from  June  to  June, 
My  Dolly's  words  are  sweet  as  curds — 
Her  laugh  is  like  a  tune; — 
With  a  hey,  Dolly !  ho,  Dolly ! 

Dolly  shall  be   mine,  30 

Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine. 

Break,  break  to  her,  O  crocus-spear  I 

O  tall  Lent-lilies  flame! 
There'll  be  a  bride  at  Easter-tide, 
And  Dolly  is  her  name. 

With  a  hey,  Dolly !  ho,  Dolly ! 

Dolly  shall  be  mine 
Before  the  spray  is  white  with  May, 
Or  blooms  the  eglantine.  40 

(1885)    " 


BALLADE  OF  JUNE 

WILLIAM    ERNEST    HENLEY 

[For   the    form   of  this   poem,   see  the    note    on 
page    350.] 

Lilacs  glow,  and  jasmines  climb, 
Larks  are  loud  the  livelong  day. 

O  the  golden  summer-prime! 
June  takes  up  the  sceptre  of  May, 
And  the  land  beneath  her  sway 

Glows,  a  dream  of  blossoming  closes. 
And  the  very  wind's  at  play 

With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

Lights  and  shadows  in  the  lime 

Meet  in  exquisite  disarray.  10 

Hark!  the  rich  recurrent  rhyme 

Of  the  blackbird's  roundelay! 

Where  he  carols,  frank  and  gay. 
Fancy  no  more  glooms  or  proses; 

Joyously  she  trips  away 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

O  the  cool  sea's  slumbrous  chime ! 

O  the  links  that  beach  the  bay, 
Paven  with  meadow-sweet  and  thyme. 

Where   the   brown    bees    murmur    and 
stray !  20 

Lush  the  hedgerows,  ripe  the  hay ! 
Many  a  maiden,  binding  posies, 

Finds  herself  at  Yea-and-Nay 
With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

ENVOY 

Boys  and  girls,  be  wise,  I  pray! 

Do  as  dear  Queen  June  proposes, 
For  she  bids  you  troop  and  stay 

With  Sir  Love  among  the  roses. 

(1887) 


REQUIEM 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky. 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die. 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be, 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


(1887) 


360  POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 

MARCH 

ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 
[The  whole   poem   contains   seven   stanzas,   of  which   these  are   the   first,   fourth,  and   last.] 

Ere  frost-flower  and  snow-blossom  faded  and   fell,  and  the  splendor  of  winter  had 

passed  out  of  sight, 
The  ways  of  the  woodlands  were  fairer  and  stranger  than  dreams  that  fulfil  us  in 

sleep  with  delight; 
The  breath  of  the  mouths  of  the  winds  had  hardened  on  tree-tops  and  branches  that 

glittered  and  swayed 
Such  wonders  and  glories  of  blossom-like  snow,  or  of  frost  that  outlightens  all  flowers 

till  it  fade, 
That  the  sea  was  not  lovelier  than  here  was  the  land,  nor  the  night  than  the  day,  nor 

the  day  than  the  night, 
Nor  the  winter  sublimer  with  storm  than  the  spring;  such  mirth  had  the  madness  and 

might  in  thee  made, 
March,  master  of  winds,  bright  minstrel  and  marshal  of  storms  that  enkindle  the  season 

they  smite. 

As  the  sunshine  quenches  the  snowshine;  as  April  subdues  thee,  and  yields  up  his 
kingdom  to  May, 

So  time  overcomes  the  regret  that  is  born  of  delight  as  it  passes  in  passion  away. 

And  leaves  but  a  dream  for  desire  to  rejoice  in  or  mourn  for  with  tears  and  thanks- 
givings; but  thou,  10 

Bright  god  that  art  gone  from  us,  maddest  and  gladdest  of  months,  to  what  goal  hast 
thou  gone  from  us  now? 

For  somewhere  surely  the  storm  of  thy  laughter  that  lightens,  the  beat  of  thy  wings 
that  play, 

Must  flame  as  a  fire  through  the  world,  and  the  heavens  that  we  know  not  rejoice 
in  thee :  surely  thy  brow 

Hath  lost  not  its  radiance  of  empire,  thy  spirit  the  joy  that  impelled  it  on  quest  as 
for  prey. 

Thy  spirit  is  quenched  not,  albeit  we  behold  not  thy  face  in  the  crown  of  the  steep 

sky's  arch, 
And  the  bold  first  buds  of  the  whin  wax  golden,  and  witness  arise  of  the  thorn  and 

the  larch: 
Wild  April,  enkindled  to  laughter  and  storm  by  the  kiss  of  the  wildest  of  winds  that 

blow, 
Calls  loud  on  his  brother  for  witness ;  his  hands  that  were  laden  with  blossom  are 

sprinkled  with  snow. 
And  his  lips  breathe  winter,  and  laugh,  and  relent ;  and  the  live  woods  feel  not  the 

frost's  flame  parch ; 
For  the  flame  of  the  s.pring  that  consumes  not  but  quickens  is  felt  at  the  heart  of  the 

forest  aglow,  20 

And  the  sparks  that  enkindled  and  fed  it  were  strewn  from  the  hands  of  the  gods 

of  the  winds  of  March. 

(1887) 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS  361 

ENGLAND,   QUEEN   OF   THE   WAVES 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

[The  closing  poem  in  a  series  called  "The  Armada,"  written  in  celebration  of  the  300th  anniversary 
of  the  destruction  of  the  Spanish  Armada.] 

England,  queen  of  the  waves  whose  green  inviolate  girdle  enrings  thee  round, 
Mother  fair  as  the  morning,  where  is  now  the  place  of  thy  foemen  found? 
Still  the  sea  that  salutes  us  free  proclaims  them  stricken,  acclaims  thee  crowned. 

Times  may  change,  and  the  skies  grow  strange  with  signs  of  treason  and  fraud  and 

fear : 
Foes  in  union  of  strange  communion  may  rise  against  thee  from  far  and  near : 
Sloth  and  greed  on  thy  strength  may  feed  as  cankers  waxing  from  year  to  year. 

Yet,  though  treason  and  fierce  unreason  should  league  and  lie  and  defame  and  smite. 
We  that  know  thee,  how  far  below  thee  the  hatred  burns  of  the  sons  of  night, 
We  that  love  thee  behold  above  thee  the  witness  written  of  life  in  light. 

Life  that  shines   from  thee  shows   forth  signs  that  none  may  read  not  but   eyeless 
foes :  10 

Hate,  born  blind,  in  his  abject  mind  grows  hopeful  now  but  as  madness  grows : 
Love,  born  wise,  with  exultant  eyes  adores  thy  glory,  beholds  and  glows. 

Truth  is  in  thee,  and  none  may  win  thee  to  lie,  forsaking  the  face  of  truth : 
Freedom  lives  by  the  grace  she  gives  thee,  born  again  from  thy  deathless  youth : 
Faith  should  fail,  and  the  world  turn  pale,  wert  thou  the  prey  of  the  serpent's  tooth. 

Greed  and  fraud,  unabashed,  unawed,  may  strive  to  sting  thee  at  heel  in  vain : 
Craft  and  fear  and  mistrust  may  leer  and  mourn  and  murmur  and  plead  and  plain ; 
Thou  art  thou  :  and  thy  sunbright  brow  is  hers  that  blasted  the  strength  of  Spain. 

Mother,  mother  beloved,  none  other  could  claim  in  place  of  thee  England's  place: 
Earth  bears  none  that  beholds  the  sun  so  pure  of  record,  so  clothed  with  grace :  20 

Dear  our  mother,  nor  son  nor  brother  is  thine,  as  strong  or  as  fair  of  face. 

How  shalt  thou  be  abased?  or  how  shall  fear  take  hold  of  thy  heart?  of  thine, 

England,  maiden  immortal,  laden  with  charge  of  life  and  with  hopes  divine? 

Earth  shall  wither,  when  eyes  turned  hither  behold  not  light  in  her  darkness  shine. 

England,  none  that  is  born  thy  son,  and  lives,  by  grace  of  thy  glory,  free, 
Lives  and  yearns  not  at  heart  and  burns  with  hope  to  serve  as  he  worships  thee; 
None  may  sing  thee :  the  sea-wind's  wing  beats  down  our  songs  as  it  hails  the  sea. 

(1888) 

BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST  i 

If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  my  soul 
ALFRED  TENNYSON  uncertain  or  a  fable, 

-„        .        J.  .  •        .      .  ,  Why  not  bask  amid  the  senses  while  the 

[Note  these  divisions  in  the  poem:    the  open-  „„„  „r  ^„,„.-    „  „u:„..„ 

ing    stanza,    in    which    the    poet    imaginatively  ^        suri  of  mornmg  shines, 

states  the  whole  subject  of  the  relation  of  man's  I,  the  finer  brute  rejoicmg  m  my  hounds, 
body     and     soul;     the     four    numbered     stanzas,  and   in   my   stable 

giving    the    two    speeches    of    the    Evolutionist;  v      iU        j  u      i^u     '    j  u-  iU        j  i*t 

and  the  reply  of  Old  Age  to  the  first  of  these  Youth  and  health,  and  birth  and  wealth, 

speeches.]  and  choice  of  women  and  of  wines? 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  11 

soul  of  a  man.  What  hast  thou  done  for  me,  grim  Old 

And  the  man  said,  "Am  I  your  debtor?"  Age,  save  breaking  my  bones  on  the 

And  the  Lord — "Not  yet:  but  make  it  as  rack? 

clean  as  you  can.  Would  I  had  pass'd  in  the  morning  that 

And  then  I  will  let  you  a  better."  looks  so  bright  from  afar!                10 


362 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Old  Age 
Done    for   thee?   starved   the   wild   beast 
that  was  link'd  with  thee  eighty  years 
back. 
Less    weight    now    for    the    ladder-of- 
heaven  that  hangs  on  a  star. 


If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  tho*  some- 
what finer  than  their  own, 
I  am  heir,  and  this  my  kingdom.    Shall 
the  royal  voice  be  mute? 
No,  but  if  the  rebel  subject  seek  to  drag 
me  from  the  throne, 
Hold  the  sceptre,  Human  Soul,  and  rule 
thy  province  of  the  brute. 

II 

I  have  climb'd  to  the  snows  of  Age,  and  I 
gaze  at  a  field  in  the  Past, 
Where  I  sank  with  the  body  at  times  in 
the  sloughs  of  a  low  desire. 
But  I  hear  no  yelp  of  the  beast,  and  the 
Man  is  quiet  at  last 
As  he  stands  on  the  heights  of  his  life 
with   a  glimpse   of   a  height  that   is 
higher.  20 


(1889) 


EPILOGUE 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

[This  poem,  in  which  Browning  contemplates 
the  time  when  he  shall  be  dead,  was  actually 
published  on  the  day  of  his  death,  as  the  clos- 
ing poem  in   his  final   volume   called  Asolando.'i 

At   the   midnight    in   the   silence   of   the 
sleep-time, 
When  you  set  your  fancies  free. 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools 

think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom 
you  loved  so, 
— Pity  me? 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mis- 
taken ! 
What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the 

unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I 
drivel 

— Being — who  ?  10 


One    who    never    turned    his    back    but 
marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never     dreamed, ^     though     right     were 

worsted,  wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight 
better. 

Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at   noonday   in   the  bustle  of   man's 
work-time 
Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid    him    forward,    breast    and    back    as 

either  should  be, 
"Strive   and   thrive!"    cry    "Speed, — fight 
on,  fare  ever 

Thece  as  here!"  20 

(1889) 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 


ALFRED    TENNYSON 


[By  Tennyson's  direction,  this  poem  is  al- 
ways printed  at  the  conclusion  of  his  collected 
works.] 


Sunset  and  evening  star. 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep. 
Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 

When    that    which    drew    from    out    the 
boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark!  10 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'   from  out  our  bourne  of  Time 
and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 


(1889) 


I  dreamed.     Supply  "that"  after  this  word,  and 
again  after  "Held"  in  the  following  line. 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


363 


WHEN   BURBAGE  PLAYED 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

[Burbag*  was  the  leading  tragic  actor  of 
Shakespeare's  company,  who  first  played  Ham- 
let. The  form  of  this  poem  is  the  old  French 
rondeau,  based  on  a  refrain  twice  repeated  from 
the  opening  pbfase.] 

When  Burbage  played,  the  stage  was  bare 
Of  fount  and  temple,  tower  and  stair; 

Two  backswords  eked  a  battle  out; 

Two  supers  made  a  rabble  rout; 
The  Throne  of  Denmark  was  a  chair! 

And  yet,  no  less,  the  audience  there 
Thrilled  through  all  changes  of  Despair, 
Hope,  Anger,  Fear,  Delight,  and  Doubt, 
When  Burbage  played! 

This  is  the  actor's  gift :  to  share  lo 

All  moods,  all  passions,  nor  to  care 
One  whit  for  scene,  so  he  without 
Can  lead  men's  minds  the  roundabout, 
Stirred  as  of  old  those  hearers  were 
When  Burbage  played! 

(1889) 


But  how  he  set,  I  know  not. 
There  seemed  a  purple  stile  10 

Which  little  yellow  boys  and  girls 
Were  climbing  all  the  while, 

Till  when  they  reached  the  other  side, 
A  dominie  in  gray 
Put  gently  up  the  evening  bars, 
And  led  the  flock  away. 

(1890) 


I   NEVER   SAW  A   MOOR* 
EMILY    DICKINSON 

I  never  saw  a  moor, 

I  never  saw  the  sea; 

Yet  know  I  how  the  heather  looks, 

And  what  a  wave  must  be. 

I  never  spoke  with  God, 
Nor  visited  in  heaven; 
Yet  certain  am  I  of  the  spot 
As  if  the  chart  were  given. 

(1890) 


IF 


EMILY    DICKINSON 

If  I  can  stop  one  heart  from  breaking, 

I  shall  not  live  in  vain; 

HI  can  ease  one  life  the  aching, 

Or  cool  one  pain, 

Or  help  one  fainting  robin 

Unto  his  nest  again, 

I  shall  not  live  in  vain. 

(1890) 


A   DAY* 
EMILY    DICKINSON 

I'll  tell  you  how  the  sun  rose, — 
A  ribbon  at  a  time. 
The  steeples  swam  in  amethyst, 
The  news  like  squirrels  ran. 

The  hills  untied  their  bonnets, 
The  bobolinks  begun. 
Then  I  said  softly  to  myself, 
"That  must  have  been  the  sun !" 

*  Copyrighted    by    Little,    Brown    &    Company. 
Reprinted  by  special  permission. 


THE  RAILWAY  TRAIN* 

EMILY    DICKINSON 

I  like  to  see  it  lap  the  miles, 
And  lick  the  valleys  up. 
And  stop  to  feed  itself  at  tanks; 
And  then,  prodigious,  step 

Around  a  pile  of  mountains, 
And,  supercilious,  peer 
In  shanties  by  the  sides  of  roads; 
And  then  a  quarry  pare 

To  fit  its  sides,  and  crawl  between. 
Complaining  all  the  while  10 

In  horrid,  hooting  stanza; 
Then  chase  itself  down  hill 

And  neigh  like  Boanerges  ;i 
Then,  punctual  as  a  star. 
Stop — docile  and  omnipotent — 
At  its  own  stable  door. 

(1891) 

I  Boanerges.     The  Sons  of  Thunder;  see  Mark 
3:17. 

*  Copyrighted    by    Little,    Brown    &    Company. 
Reprinted  by  special  permission. 


364 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


THE  ROBIN* 

EMILY    DICKINSON 

The  Tobin  is  the  one 
That  interrupts  the  morn 
With  hurried,  few,  express  reports 
When  March  is  scarcely  on. 

The  robin  is  the  one 
That  overflows  the  noon 
With  her  cherubic  quantity, 
An  April  but  begun. 

The  robin  is  the  one 
That  speechless  from  her  nest 
Submits  that  home  and  certainty 
And  sanctity  are  best. 

(1891) 


WHO  ROBBED  THE  WOODS?* 

EMILY    DICKINSON 

Who  robbed  the  woods, 

The  trusting  woods? 

The  unsuspecting  trees 

Brought  out  their  burrs  and  mosses 

His  fantasy  to  please. 


He  scanned  their  trinkets,  curious, 
He  grasped,  he  bore  away. 
What  will  the  solemn  hemlock, 
What  will  the  fir-tree  say? 

(1891) 


TWO   VOYAGERS* 
EMILY    DICKINSON 

Two  butterflies  went  out  at  noon 
And  waltzed  above  a  stream, 
10      Then  stepped  straight  through  the  firma- 
ment 
And  rested  on  a  beam; 

And  then  together  bore  away 
Upon  a  shining  sea, — 
Though  never  yet,  in  any  port. 
Their  coming  mentioned  be. 


If  spoken  by  the  distant  bird. 
If  met  in  ether  sea 
By   frigate  or  by  merchantman, 
Report  was  not  to  me. 

(1891) 


ID 


THE  ENGLISH  FLAG 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 


[In  this  poem  Kipling  celebrated  English  imperialism  at  a  time  when  he  felt  it  was  little  under- 
stood by  the  English  themseWes.  Four  omitted  lines  (after  the  second)  have  to  do  with  temporary 
political  conditions.] 

Winds  of  the  World,  give  answer!     They  are  whimpering  to  and  fro — 
And  what  should  they  know  of  England  who  only   England  know?— 

*        *        *        * 

We  may  not  speak  of  England;  her  flag's  to  sell  or  share. 
What  is  the  Flag  of  England?     Winds  of  the  world,  declare! 

The  North  Wind  blew:  "From  Bergen  my  steel-shod  vanguards  go; 
I  chase  your  lazy  whalers  home  from  the  Disko  floe.^ 
By  the  great  North  Lights  above  me  I  work  the  will  of  God, 
And  the  liner  splits  on  the  ice-fields,  or  the  Dogger^  fills  with  cod. 

"I  barred  my  gates  with  iron,  I  shuttered  my  doors  with  flame, 
Because  to  force  my  ramparts  your  nutshell  navies  came.  10 

I  took  the  sun  from  their  presence,  I  cut  them  down  with  my  blast. 
And  they  died,  but  the  Flag  of  England  blew  free  ere  the  spirit  passed. 


*  Copyrighted    by    Little,    Brown    &    Company. 
I  Disko  floe.     Ice-drift  from  Greenland. 


Reprinted  by  special  permission. 

2  Dogger.     A  fishing  bank  in  the  North  Sea. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS  365 

"The  lean  white  bear  hath  seen  it  in  the  long,  long  Arctic  night, 
The  musk-ox  knows  the  standard  that  flouts  the  Northern  Light: 
What  is  the  Flag  of  England?    Ye  have  but  my  bergs  to  dare. 
Ye  have  but  my  drifts  to  conquer.    Go  forth,  for  it  is  there!" 

The  South  Wind  sighed:  "From  the  Virgins^  my  mid-sea  course  was  ta'en 

Over  a  thousand  islands  lost  in  an  idle  main. 

Where  the  sea-egg  flames  on  the  coral  and  the  long-backed  breakers  croon 

Their  endless  ocean  legends  to  the  lazy,  locked  lagoon.  20 

"Strayed  amid  lonely  islets,  mazed  amid  outer  keys, 
I  waked  the  palms  to  laughter — I  tossed  the  scud  in  the  breeze. 
Never  was  isle  so  little,  never  was  sea  so  lone, 
But  over  the  scud  and  the  palm-trees  an  English  flag  was  flown. 

"I  have  wrenched  it  free  from  the  halliards  to  hang  for  a  wisp  on  the  Horn ; 
I  have  chased  it  north  to  the  Lizard, 2  ribboned  and  rolled  and  torn; 
I  have  spread  its  fold  o'er  the  dying,  adrift  in  a  hopeless  sea; 
I  have  hurled  it  swift  on  the  slaver,  and  seen  the  slave  set  free. 

"My  basking  sunfish  know  it,  and  wheeling  albatross, 

Where  the  lone  wave  fills  with  fire  beneath  the  Southern  Cross.  30 

What  is  the  Flag  of  England?    Ye  have  but  my  reefs  to  dare. 
Ye  have  but  my  seas  to  furrow.    Go  forth,  for  it  is  there!" 

The  East  Wind  roared:  "From  the  Kuriles,^  the  Bitter  Seas,  I  come. 
And  me  men  call  the  Home-Wind,  for  I  bring  the  English  home. 
Look — look  well  to  your  shipping !     By  the  breath  of  my  mad  typhoon 
I  swept  your  close-packed  Praya,*  and  beached  your  best  at  Kowloon  l^ 

"The  reeling  junks  behind  me,  and  the  racing  seas  before, 
I  raped  your  richest  roadstead — I  plundered  Singapore ! 
I  set  my  hand  on  the  Hoogli;^  as  a  hooded  snake  she  rose; 
And  I  flung  your  stoutest  steamers  to  roost  with  the  startled  crows.  40 

"Never  the  lotos  closes,  never  the  wild-fowl  wake. 
But  a  soul  goes  out  on  the  East  Wind  that  died  for  England's  sake — 
Man  or  woman  or  suckling,  mother  or  bride  or  maid — 
Because  on  the  bones  of  the  English  the  English  Flag  is  stayed. 

"The  desert-dust  hath  dimmed  it,  the  flying  wild-ass  knows. 
The  scared  white  leopard  winds  it  across  the  taintless  snows. 
What  is  the  Flag  of  England?    Ye  have  but  my  sun  to  dare. 
Ye  have  but  my  sands  to  travel.    Go  forth,  for  it  is  there !" 

The  West  Wind  called :  "In  squadrons  the  thoughtless  galleons  fly 

That  bear  the  wheat  and  cattle  lest  street-bred  people  die.  50 

They  make  my  might  their  porter,  they  make  my  house  their  path, 

And  I  loose  my  neck  from  their  service  and  whelm  them  all  in  my  wrath. 

"I  draw  the  gliding  fog-bank  as  a  snake  is  drawn  from  the  hole; 
They  bellow  one  to  the  other,  the  frighted  ship-bells  toll : 
For  day  is  a  drifting  terror  till  I  raise  the  shroud  with  my  breath, 
And  they  see  strange  bows  above  them,  and  the  two  go  locked  to  death. 

1  Virgins.     Islands  of  the  West  Indies. 

2  Litard.     The  headland  first  sighted  by  ships  approaching  England  from  the  south. 

3  Kuriles.     Islands  northeast  of  Japan.  4  Praya.     An   embankment. 

5  Kowloon.     Near  Hong  Kong. 

6  Hoogli.     The  chief  branch  in  the  delta  of  the  River  Ganges. 


366 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"But  whether  in  calm  or  wrack-wreath,  whether  by  dark  or  day 
I  heave  them  whole  to  the  conger^  or  rip  their  plates  away, 
First  of  the  scattered  legions,  under  a  shrieking  sky, 
Dipping  between  the  rollers,  the  English  Flag  goes  by. 

"The  dead  dumb  fog  hath  wrapped  it — the  frozen  dews  have  kissed- 
The  morning  stars  have  hailed  it,  a  fellow-star  in  the  mist. 
What  is  the  Flag  of  England?     Ye  have  but  my  breath  to  dare, 
Ye  have  but  my  waves  to  conquer.    Go  forth,  for  it  is  there !" 

(1891) 


60 


FRESH  FROM  HIS  FASTNESSES 

WILLIAM   ERNEST   HENLEY 

Fresh  from  his  fastnesses 

Wholesome  and  spacious, 

The  North  Wind,  the  mad  huntsman. 

Halloas  on  his  white  hounds 

Over  the  gray,  roaring 

Reaches  and  ridges. 

The  forest  of  ocean. 

The  chace^  of  the  world. 

Hark  to  the  peal 

Of  the  pack  in  full  cry,  10 

As  he  thongs  them  before  him. 

Swarming  voluminous. 

Weltering,  wide-wallowing, 

Till  in  a  ruining 

Chaos  of  energy. 

Hurled  on  their  quarry, 

They  crash  into  foam! 


Old  Indefatigable, 

Time's  right-hand  man,  the  sea 

Laughs  as  in  joy 

From  his  millions  of  wrinkles : 

Laughs  that  his  destiny. 

Great  with  the  greatness 

Of  triumphing  order, 

Shows  as  a  dwarf 

By  the  strength  of  his  heart 

And  the  might  of  his  hands. 


20 


Master  of  masters, 
O  maker  of  heroes, 
Thunder  the  brave, 
Irresistible  message: — 
"Life  is  worth  Living 
Through  every  grain  of  it, 
From  the  foundations 
To  the  last  edge 
Of  the  cornerstone,  death." 

(1892) 

1  conger.     Sea-eel. 

2  chace.     Hunting  reservation. 


30 


UNGUARDED  GATES 

THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 

[With  this  poetic  plea  for  the  restriction  of 
immigration  to  the  United  States,  compare  the 
opposite  side  as  represented  in  Mr.  Schauffler's 
poem,  page  386.] 

Wide    open    and    unguarded,   stand    our 

gates, 
Named  of  the  four  winds,  North,  South, 

East,  and  West; 
Portals  that  lead  to  an  enchanted  land 
Of  cities,   forests,  fields  of  living  gold, 
Vast  prairies,  lordly  summits  touched  with 

snow. 
Majestic  rivers  sweeping  proudly  past 
The  Arab's  date-palm  and  the  Norseman's 

pine — 
A  realm  wherein  are  fruits  of  every  zone. 
Airs  of  all  climes,  for  lo!  throughout  the 

year 
The  red  rose  blossoms  somewhere — a  rich 

land,  10 

A  later  Eden  planted  in  the  wilds. 
With    not    an    inch    of    earth    within    its 

bound 
But  if  a  slave's  foot  press  it  sets  him  free. 
Here,   it   is   written.   Toil   shall   have   its 

wage. 
And  Honor  honor,  and  the  humblest  man 
Stand  level  with  the  highest  in  the  law. 
Of  such   a  land  have   men   in   dungeons 

dreamed. 
And,  with  the  vision  brightening  in  their 

eyes. 
Gone  smiling  to  the  fagot  and  the  sword. 


Wide  open  and  unguarded  stand  our 
gates,  20 

And  through  them  presses  a  wild  motley 
throng — 

Men  from  the  Volga  and  the  Tartar 
steppes, 

Featureless  figures  of  the  Hoang-ho, 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


367 


Malayan,    Scythian,    Teuton,    Kelt,    and 

Slav, 
Flying    the    Old    World's    poverty     and 

scorn; 
These  bringing  with  them  unknown  gods 

and  rites, — 
Those,  tiger  passions,  here  to  stretch  their 

claws. 
In  street  and  alley  what  strange  tongues 

are  loud. 
Accents  of  menace  alien  to  our  air. 
Voices    that    once    the    Tower    of    Babel 

knew  I  30 

O  Liberty,  white  Goddess !  is  it  well 

To  leave  the  gates  unguarded?     On  thy 

breast 
Fold  Sorrow's  children,  soothe  the  hurts 

of  fate, 
Lift  the  down-trodden,  but  with  hand  of 

steel 
Stay  those  who  to  thy  sacred  portals  come 
To  waste  the  gifts  of  freedom.     Have  a 

care 
Lest  from  thy  brow  the  clustered  stars  be 

torn 
And  trampled  in  the  dust.     For  so  of  old 
The  thronging  Goth  and  Vandal  trampled 

Rome, 
And   where    the   temples   of   the    Caesars 

stood  40 

The  lean  wolf  unmolested  made  her  lair. 

(1892) 


I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night 

and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds 

by  the  shore ;  10 

While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the 

pavements    gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

(1892) 

THE   REDBIRD* 

MADISON  CAWEIN 

He  flies  with  flirt  and  fluting — 

As  flies  a  crimson  star 
From  flaming  star-beds  shooting — 

From  where  the  roses  are. 

Wings  past  and  sings ;  and  seven 
Notes,  wild  as  fragrance  is, — 

That  turn  to  flame  in  heaven, — 
Float  round  him  full  of  bliss. 

He  sings;  each  burning  feather 

Thrills,  throbbing  at  his  throat;  lo 

A  song  of  firefly  weather, 
And  of  a  glow-worm  boat: 

Of  Elf  land  and  a  princess 

Who,  born  of  a  perfume, 
His  music  rocks, — where  winces 

That  rosebud's  cradled  bloom. 


THE   LAKE   ISLE   OF   INNISFREE 

WILLIAM    BUTLER    YEATS 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innis- 

free. 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and 

wattles^  made; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive 

for  the  honey  bee. 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for 
peace  comes   dropping  slow. 

Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning 
to    where    the    cricket   sings; 

There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and 
noon   a  purple  glow. 

And  evening  full  of  the  linnets'  wings. 

J  wattles.     Woven  twigs. 


No  bird  sings  half  so  airy. 
No  bird  of  dusk  or  dawn. 

Thou    masking   King   of   Faery! 
Thou  red-crowned  Oberon ! 

(1893) 


20 


"A   MAN   MUST   LIVE" 

CHARLOTTE  PERKINS  STETSON 

[For  the  rondeau  form  of  this  poem,  see  note 
on  Dobson's  "When  Burbage  Played,"  page 
363.] 

A  man  must  live!  We  justify 
Low  shift  and  trick  to  treason  high, 
A  little  vote  for  a  little  gold, 
To  a  whole  senate  bought  and  sold, 
With   this   self-evident  reply. 


•  Copyright   by    the 
rinted   by  special  pe 


Macmillan   Company, 
permission. 


Re- 


368 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


But  is  it  so?     Pray  tell  me  why 
Life  at  such  cost  you  have  to  buy? 
In  what  religion  were  you  told 
"A  man  must  live"? 

There  are  times  when  a  man  must  die.  lo 

Imagine  for  a  battle-cry 

From  soldiers  with  a  sword  to  hold — 
From  soldiers  with  the  flag  unrolled — 

This  coward's  whine,  this  liar's  lie, 
"A  man  must  Hve" ! 

(1893) 


For  you  shall  Shakespeare's  scene  unroll, 
Mozart  shall  steal  your  ravished  soul, 
Homer  his  bardic  hymn  rehearse, 
Virgil  recite  his  maiden  verse. 

Now  learn,  love,  have,  do,  be  the  best ; 
Each  in  one  thing  excel  the  rest :  10 

Strive;     and    hold     fast    this    truth     of 

heaven — 
To  him  that  hath  shall  more  be  given. 

(1893) 


HISTORY 

WILLIAM    WATSON 

Darkly,     as    by    some    gloomed     mirror 

glassed, 
Herein  at  times  the  brooding  eye  beholds 
The  great  scarred  visage  of  the  pompous 

Past, 
But  oftener  only  the  embroidered  folds 
And  soiled  regality  of  his  rent  robe, 
Whose  tattered  skirts  are  ruined  dynasties 
And  cumber  with  their  trailing  pride  the 

globe. 
And  sweep  the  dusty  ages  in  our  eyes ; 
Till  the  world  seems  a  world  of  husks 

and  bones  g 

Where  sightless  seers  and  immortals  dead, 
Kings    that    remember    not    their    awful 

thrones. 
Invincible  armies  long  since  vanquished. 
And    powerless    potentates    and     foolish 

sages 
Lie   'mid    the    crumbling   of    the    mossy 

ages. 

(1893) 


SCHOOL-DAYS 

ROBERT    BRIDGES 

[From  "Founder's  Day,"  an  ode  written  for 
the  ninth  Jubilee  of  Eton,  the  chief  English 
school  for  boys.] 

Here  is  eternal  spring:  for  you 
The  very  stars  of  heaven  are  new; 
And  aged  Fame  again  is  born, 
Fresh  as  a  peeping  flower  of  morn. 


COMRADES  * 

RICHARD    HOVEY 

[From   a  poem   read   at   the   60th   convention   of 
the    Psi   Upsilon   fraternity.] 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night, 

For  the  parting  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,   the  clink  of  cups  together, 
With  the  daylight  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  morn 
With  a  double  horn, 
When  strong  men  drink  together! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night, 

For  the  battle  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together,  10 

With  the  triumph  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  foe 
And   lay   him   low 
When  strong  men  fight  together. 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night, 

For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together. 
With  the  tempest  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  Sea 

With  a  shout  of  glee  20 

When  strong  men   roam  together. 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 

For  the  dying  is  with  dawn. 
Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together, 
With  the  silence  coming  on ! 
Greet  the  end 
As  a  friend  a  friend, 
When  strong  men  die  together. 

(1894) 

•Reprinted    by    special    permission    of    Small, 
Maynard  &  Company. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


369 


THE   MARCHING   MORROWS* 

BLISS    CABMAN 

Now  gird  thee  well  for  courage, 
My  knight  of  twenty  year, 
Against  the   marching   morrows 
That  fill  the  world  with  fear! 

The  flowers  fade  before  them; 
The  summer  leaves  the  hill ; 
Their   trumpets    range   the   morning, 
And  those  who  hear  grow  still. 

Like  pillagers  of  harvest. 

Their  fame  is  far  abroad,  lo 

As  gray  remorseless  troopers 

That  plunder  and  maraud. 

The  dust  is  on  their  corselets ; 
Their  marching  fills  the  world; 
With  conquest  after  conquest 
Their  banners  are  unfurled. 

They  overthrow  the  battles 

Of  every  lord  of  war. 

From  world-dominioned  cities 

Wipe  out  the  names  they  bore.  20 

Sohrab,   Rameses,   Roland, 

Ramoth,  Napoleon,  Tyre, 

And  the  Romeward  Huns  of  Attila — 

Alas,  for  their  desire ! 

By  April  and  by  autumn 
They  perish  in  their  pride. 
And  still  they  close  and  gather 
Out  on  the  mountain-side. 

The  tanned  and  tameless  children 
Of  the  wild  elder  earth,  30 

With  stature  of  the  northlights. 
They  have  the  stars  for  girth. 

There's  not  a  hand  to  stay  them, 
Of  all  the  hearts  that  brave; 
No  captain  to  undo  them, 
No  cunning  to  off-stave. 

Yet  fear  thou  not!     If  haply 

Thou  be  the  kingly  one, 

They'll  set  thee  in  their  vanguard 

To  lead  them  round  the  sun.  40 

(1894) 

'Reprinted    by    special    permission    of    Small, 
Maynard  &  Company. 


A   MORE   ANCIENT   MARINERf 

BLISS    CARMAN 

[Six    stanzas    of    the    original    poem — following 
the  sixth — are  omitted.] 

The  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer, 

A  burly  velveted  rover, 

Who  loves  the  booming  wind  in  his  ear 

As  he  sails  the  seas  of  clover. 

A  waif  of  the  goblin  pirate  crew, 
With  not  a  soul  to  deplore  him. 
He  steers  for  the  open  verge  of  blue 
With  the  filmy  world  before  him. 

His   flimsy   sails   abroad  on   the   wind 
Are  shivered  with  fairy  thunder;  10 

On  a  line  that  sings  to  the  light  of  his 

wings 
He  makes  for  the  lands  of  wonder. 

He  harries  the  ports  of  the  Hollyhocks, 
And  levies  on  poor  Sweetbrier; 
He  drinks  the  whitest  wine  of  Phlox, 
And  the  Rose  is  his  desire. 

He  hangs  in  the  Willows  a  night  and  a 

day; 
He  rifles  the  Buckwheat  patches; 
Then  battens  his  store  of  pelf  galore 
Under  the  tautest  hatches.  20 

He  woos  the  Poppy  and  weds  the  Peach, 
Inveigles  Daffodilly, 
And  then  like  a  tramp  abandons  each 
For  the  gorgeous  Canada  Lily. 

He  never  could  box  the  compass  round; 
He  doesn't  know  port  from  starboard; 
But  he  knows  the  gates  of  the  Sundown 

Straits, 
Where  the  choicest  goods  are  harbored. 

He  never  could  see  the  Rule  of  Three, 
But  he  knows  a  rule  of  thumb  30 

Better  than  Euclid's,  better  than  yours, 
Or  the  teachers'  yet  to  come. 

He  knows  the  smell  of  the  hydromel 
As  if  two  and  two  were  five; 
And  hides  it  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 
In  his  own  hexagonal  hive. 

Out  in  the  day,  haphazard,  alone, 
Booms  the  old  vagrant  hummer. 
With  only  his  whim  to  pilot  him 
Through  the  splendid  vast  of  summer.  40 

t  Reprinted    by    special    permission    of    Small, 
Maynard  &  Company. 


370 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


He  steers  and  steers  on  the  slant  of  the 

gale, 
Like  the  fiend  or   Vanderdecken  ;i 
And  there's  never  an  unknown  course  to 

sail 
But  his  crazy  log  can  reckon. 

He  drones  along  with  his  rough  sea-song 

And  the  throat  of  a  salty  tar, 

This    devil-may-care,    till    he    makes    his 

lair 
By  the  light  of  a  yellow  star. 

He  looks  like  a  gentleman,   lives   like  a 

lord. 
And  works  like  a  Trojan  hero;  50 

Then  loafs  all  winter  upon  his  hoard, 
With  the  mercury  at  zero. 


THE   BUTTERFLY* 

JOHN    B.    TABB 

Leafless,  stemless,  floating  flower, 
From  a  rainbow's  scattered  bower, 
Like  a  bubble  of  the  air 
Blown  by  fairies,  tell  me  where 
Seed  or  scion  1  may  find 
Bearing  blossoms  of  thy  kind. 

(1894) 


THE  BROOK* 

JOHN    B.    TABB 

It  is  the  mountain  to  the  sea 
That  makes  a  messenger  of  me: 
And,  lest  I  loiter  on  the  way 
And  lose  what  I  am  sent  to  say. 
He  sets  his  reverie  to  song 
And  bids  me  sing  it  all  day  long. 
Farewell !   for  here  the  stream  is  slow, 
And  1  have  many  a  mile  to  go. 

(1894) 

I  Vanderdecken.  The  legendary  captain  of  the 
Flying  Dutchman,  doomed  to  a  perpetual  attempt 
to  round  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

•Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Small. 
Maynard  &  Company. 


10 


THE   WATER-LILYt 
JOHN    B.    TABB 

Whence,  O  fragrant  form  of  light. 
Hast  thou  drifted  through  the  night, 
Swanlike,  to  a  leafy  nest. 
On  the  restless  waves  at  rest? 

Art  thou  from  the  snowy  zone 
Of  a  mountain-summit  blown, 
Or  the  blossom  of  a  dream. 
Fashioned  in  the  foamy  stream? 

Nay;   methinks  the  maiden  moon. 
When  the  daylight  came  too  soon, 
Fleeting  from  her  bath  to  hide, 
Left  her  garment  in  the  tide. 

(1894) 


PHANTOMS t 

JOHN    B.    TABB 

Are  ye  the  ghosts  of  fallen  leaves, 

O  flakes  of  snow. 
For  which,  through  naked  trees,  the  winds 

A-mourning  go? 

Or  are  ye  angels,  bearing  home 

The  host  unseen 
Of  truant  spirits,  to  be  clad 

Again  in  green? 

(1894) 

THE  DANDELIONt 

JOHN    B.    TABB 

With  locks  of  gold  to-day; 
To-morrow,  silver  gray; 
Then  blossom-bald.     Behold, 
O  man,  thy  fortune  told ! 

(1894) 

EASTERf 

JOHN    B.    TABB 

Like  a  meteor,  large  and  bright, 

Fell  a  golden  seed  of  light 

On  the  field  of  Christmas  night 

When  the  Babe  was  born; 
Then  'twas  sepulchred  in  gloom 
Till  above  His  holy  tomb 
Flashed  its  everlasting  bloom — 

Flower  of  Easter  morn. 

(1894) 

t  Reprinted    by    special    permission    of    Small, 
Maynard  &  Company. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


371 


DAISY 
FRANCIS    THOMPSON 

Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown 

Six   foot  out  of  the  turf, 
And    the   harebell    shakes    on   the    windy 
hill— 

O  the  breath  of  the  distant  surf! 

The  hills  look  over  on  the  South, 
And  southward  dreams  the  sea ; 

And,  with  the  sea-breeze  hand  in  hand, 
Came  innocence  and  she. 

Where  'mid  the  gorse  the  raspberry 
Red  for  the  gatherer  springs,  lo 

Two  children  did  we  stray  and  talk 
Wise,  idle,  childish  things. 

She  listened  with  big-lipped  surprise, 
Breast-deep  'mid  flower  and  spine: 

Her  skin  was  like  a  grape,  whose  veins 
Run  snow  instead  of  wine. 

She  knew  not  those  sweet  words  she  spake. 
Nor  knew  her  own  sweet  way ; 

But  there's  never  a  bird,  so  sweet  a  song 
Thronged  in  whose  throat  that  day !    20 

Oh,  there  were  flowers  in  Storrington 
On  the  turf  and  on  the  spray; 

But  the  sweetest  flower  on  Sussex  hills 
Was  the  Daisy-flower  that  day ! 

Her   beauty    smoothed    earth's    furrowed 
face; 

She  gave  me  tokens  three, — 
A  look,  a  vvord  of  her  winsome  mouth, 

And  a  wild  raspberry. 

A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word, — strings  of  sand  !  30 

And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 

Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 

For  standing  artless  as  the  air, 

And  candid  as  the  skies. 
She  took  the  berries  with  her  hand. 

And  the  love  with  her  sweet  eyes. 

The  fairest  things  have  fleetest  end. 
Their  scent  survives  their  close; 

But  the  rose's  scent  is  bitterness 
To  him  that  loved  the  rose !  40 


She  looked  a  little  wistfully. 
Then  went  her  sunshine  way : 

The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it. 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day. 

She  went  her  unremembering  way. 

She  went  and  left  in  me 
The  pang  of  all  the  partings  gone 

And  partings  yet  to  be. 

She  left  me  marvelling  why  my  soul 
Was  sad  that  she  was  glad; 

At  all  the  sadness  in  the  sweet, 
The  sweetness  in  the  sad. 

Still,  still  I  seemed  to  see  her,  still 
Look  up  with  soft  replies, 

And  take  the  berries  with  her  hand, 
And  the  love  with  her  lovely  eyes. 

Nothing  begins  and   nothing  ends, 
That  is  not  paid  with  moan; 

For  we  are  born  in  others'  pain, 
And  perish  in  our  own. 

(1895) 


50 


60 


THE  JOY   OF  THE   HILLS 

EDWIN    MARKHAM 

I  ride  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride; 

I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 

Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats. 

Checking  the  field-lark's  rippling  notes- 
Lightly  I  sweep 
From  steep  to  steep: 

Over  my  head  through  the  branches  high 

Come  glimpses  of  a  rushing  sky; 

The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse's  flanks ; 

Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks ; 

A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass;    11 

A  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 

Life's  hoard  of  regret — 

All  the  terror  and  pain 

Of  the  chafing  chain. 

Grind  on,  O  cities,  grind : 

I  leave  you  a  blur  behind. 
I  am  lifted  elate — the  skies  expand: 
Here  the  world's  heaped  gold  is  a  pile  of 
sand.  20 

Let  them  weary  and  work  in  their  narrow 

walls : 
I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls! 


372 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream — I  swing 
Down  the  airy  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing! 
The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word : 
My  body's  a  bough  in  the  wind,  my  heart 
a  bird! 

(189s) 


AN  ANGLER'S  WISH 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


When  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Go  wandering  down  the  dusty  town, 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow, 

And  leads  the  eyes  towards  sunset  skies 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow, — 

Then  weary  seems  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade;        10 

I'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 


I  guess  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  their  dun 
For  yellow  coats,  to  match  the  sun; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show's  begun.  20 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees : 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these? 


I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaks  slowly  upward  from  the  ground, 

While  on  the  wing  the  blue-birds  ring 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around. 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush ;  and  very  near,  30 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass 
grows, 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "Good  cheer." 


And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm. 

How  much  I'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm ! 


'Tis  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record — or  my  line :  40 

Only  an  idle  little  stream. 
Whose  amber  waters  softly  gleam. 
Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland 
shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream: 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 
From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art : 
'Tis  all  I'm  wishing — old-fashioned  fish- 
ing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart. 

(1895) 

AFTER  CONSTRUING* 

ARTHUR    CHRISTOPHER    BENSON 

Lord  Caesar,  when  you  sternly  wrote 
The  story  of  your  grim  campaigns, 

And   watched   the   ragged   smoke  -  wreath 
float 
Above  the  burning  plains, 

Amid  the  impenetrable  wood. 
Amid  the  camp's  incessant  hum, 

At  eve,  beside  the  tumbling  flood 
In  high  Avaricum, 

You  little  recked,  imperious  head, 
When  shrilled  your  shattering  trumpet's 
noise,  10 

Your  frigid  sections  would  be  read 
By  bright-eyed  English  boys. 

Ah  me !  who  penetrates  to-day 
The  secret  of  your  deep  designs? 

Your  sovereign  visions,  as  you  lay 
Amid  the  sleeping  lines? 

The  Mantuan  singer^  pleading  stands; 

From  century  to  century 
He  leans  and  reaches  wistful  hands. 

And  cannot  bear  to  die.  20 

I   Mantuan  singer.     Virgil. 

*  Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  the  John 
Lane  Company. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


373 


But  you  are  silent,  secret,  proud, 
No  smile  upon  your  haggard  face, 

As  when  you  eyed  the  murderous  crowd 
Beside  the  statue's  base. 


I  marvel :  that  Titanic  heart 

Beats  strongly  through  the  arid  page, 
And  we,  self-conscious  sons  of  art, 

In  this  bewildering  age, 

Like  dizzy  revelers  stumbling  out 

Upon  the  pure  and  peaceful  night,      30 

Are  sobered  into  troubled  doubt, 
As  swims  across  our  sight. 

The  ray  of  that  sequestered  sun, 

Far  in  the  illimitable  blue, — 
The  dream  of  all  you  left  undone. 

Of  all  you  dared  to  do. 

(1895) 


A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood, 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock, 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood;^ 
And  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless. 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod, —      30 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 


(1895) 


EVENSONG 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 

The  embers  of  the  day  are  red 
Beyond  the  murky  hill. 
The  kitchen  smokes :  the  bed 
In  the  darkling  house  is  spread : 
The  great  sky  darkens  overhead. 
And  the  great  woods  are  shrill. 
So  far  have  I  been  led, 
Lord,  by  Thy  will : 

So  far  I  have  followed.  Lord,  and  won- 
dered still. 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

WILLIAM   HERBERT    CARRUTK 

A  fire-mist  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal  and  a  cell, 
A  jelly-fish  and  a  saurian, ^ 

And  caves  where  the  cave-men  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon. 

The  infinite,  tender  sky,  10 

The  ripe  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields. 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high — 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  golden-rod — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea-beach, 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 

Come  welling  and  surging  in —  20 

Come  from  the  mystic  ocean. 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod, — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

I  saurian.     Reptile. 


The  breeze  from  the  embalmed  land        10 
Blows  sudden  toward  the  shore. 
And  claps  my  cottage  door. 
I  hear  the  signal,  Lord — I  understand. 
The  night  at  Thy  command 
Comes.    I  will  eat  and  sleep  and  will  not 
question  more. 

(1895) 


TO  AN   ATHLETE   DYING  YOUNG 

A.    E.    HOUSMAN 

[This  and  the  following  jpoem  are  from  the  col- 
lection  called  A    Shropshire   Lad.] 

The  time  you  won  your  town  the  race 
We  chaired  you  through  the  market-place ; 
Man  and  boy  stood  cheering  by, 
And  home  we  brought  you  shoulder-high. 

To-day,  the  road  all  runners  come. 
Shoulder-high  we  bring  you  home. 
And  set  you  at  your  threshold  down. 
Townsman  of  a  stiller  town. 

Smart  lad,  to  slip  betimes  away 
From  fields  where  glory  does  not  stay,  10 
And  early  though  the  laurel  grows 
It  withers  quicker  than  the  rose. 
I  rood.     Cross. 


374 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Eyes  the  shady  night  has  shut 

Cannot  see  the  record  cut, 

And  silence  sounds  no  worse  than  cheers 

After  earth  has  stopped  the  ears : 

Now  you  will  not  swell  the  rout 

Of  lads  that  wore  their  honors  out, 

Runners  whom  renown  outran 

And  the  name  died  before  the  man.        20 

So  set,  before  its  echoes  fade, 
The  fleet  foot  on  the  sill  of  shade, 
And  hold  to  the  low  lintel  up 
The  still-defended  challenge-cup. 

And  round  that  early-laurelled  head 
Will  flock  to  gaze  the  strengthless  dead. 
And  find  unwithered  on  its  curls 
The  garland  briefer  than  a  girl's. 

(1896) 


LAD,  HAVE  YOU  THINGS  TO  DO? 

A.    E.    HOUSMAN 

Say,  lad,  have  you  things  to  do? 

Quick  then,  while  your  day's  at  prime, 
Quick,  and  if  'tis  work   for  two. 

Here  am  I,  man :  now's  your  time. 

Send  me  now,  and  I  shall  go; 

Call  me,  I  shall  hear  you  call ; 
Use  me  ere  they  lay  me  low 

Where  a  man's  no  use  at  all; 

Ere  the  wholesome  flesh  decay. 

And  the  willing  nerve  be  numb,  10 

And  the  lips  lack  breath  to  say,^ 

"No,  my  lad,  I  cannot  come." 

(1896) 
AT  THE  END   OF  THE  DAY* 

RICHARD    HOVEY 

There  is  no  escape  by  the  river, 
There  is  no  flight  left  by  the  fen; 
We  are  compassed  about  by  the  shiver 
Of  the  night  of  their  marching  men. 
Give  a  cheer! 

For  our  hearts  shall  not  give  way. 
Here's  to  a  dark  to-morrow. 
And  here's  to  a  brave  to-day! 

•Reprinted    by    special    permission    of    Small, 
Mayiiard  &  Company. 


The  tale^  of  their  hosts  is  countless. 
And  the  tale  of  ours  a  score;  10 

But  the  palm  is  naught  to  the  dauntless. 
And  the  cause  is  more  and  more. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

We  may  die,  but  not  give  way. 
Here's  to  a  silent  to-morrow, 
And  here's  to  a  stout  to-day ! 

God  has  said :  "Ye  shall  fail  and  perish ; 
But  the  thrill  ye  have  felt  to-night 
I  shall  keep  in  my  heart  and  cherish 
When  the  worlds  have  passed  in  night." 
Give  a  cheer!  21 

For  the  soul  shall  not  give  way. 
Here's  to  the  greater  to-morrow 
That  is  born  of  a  great  to-day! 

Now  shame  on  the  craven  truckler 
And  the  puling  things  that  mope ! 
We've  a  rapture  for  our  buckler 
That  outwears  the  wings  of  hope. 
Give  a  cheer ! 

For  our  joy  shall  not  give  way.  30 

Here's  in  the  teeth  of  to-morrow 
To  the  glory  of  to-day! 

(1896) 


GUILIELMUS   REX 

THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 

[The    title    means    "King    William."] 

The  folk  who  lived  in  Shakespeare's  day 
And  saw  that  gentle  figure  pass 
By  London   Bridge,   his   frequent  way — 
They  little  knew  what  man  he  was. 

The  pointed  beard,  the  courteous  mien. 
The  equal  port^  to  high  and  low, 
All  this  they  saw  or  might  have  seen — 
But  not  the  light  behind  the  brow ! 

The  doublet's  modest  gray  or  brown. 
The  slender  sword-hilt's  plain  device,     10 
What  sign  had  these  for  prince  or  clown? 
Few  turned,  or  none,  to  scan  him  twice. 

Yet  'twas  the  king  of  England's  kings ! 
The  rest  with  all  their  pomps  and  trains 
Are  mouldered,  half-remembered  things — 
'Tis  he  alone  that  Hves  and  reigns! 

(1896) 

I  tale.     Number. 

a  equal  port.     Same  manner. 


LYRICAL  AND  REFLECTIVE  POEMS 


375 


AMERICA   AND   ENGLAND* 

GEORGE    EDWARD    WOODBERRY 

[These  sonnets  are  from  a  group  published  "when 
there  was   talk   of  war  with   England."] 

What  is  the  strength  of  England,  and  her 

pride 
Among  the  nations,  when  she  makes  her 

boast  ? 
Has  the  East  heard  it,  where  her  far-flung 

host 
Hangs  like  a  javelin  in  India's  side? 
Does  the  sea  know  it,  where  her  navies 

ride, 
Like  towers  of  stars,  about  the  silver  coast. 
Or  from  the  great  Capes  to  the  uttermost 
Parts   of   the    North    like   ocean    meteors 

glide? 
Answer,  O   South,  if  yet  where  Gordon^ 

sank,  9 

Spent  arrow  of  the  far  and  lone  Soudan, 
There   comes    a   whisper   out   of    wasted 

death ! 
O  every  ocean,  every  land,  that  drank 
The  blood  of  England,  answer,  if  ye  can, 
What    is    it    that    giveth    her    immortal 

breath? 

Then  the  West  answered :  "Is  the  sword's 

keen  edge 
Like  to  the  mind   for  sharpness?     Doth' 

the  flame 
Devour  like  thought?     Many  with  char- 
iots came. 
Squadron  and  phalanx,  legion,  square,  and 

wedge ; 
They  mounted  up;  they  wound  from  ledge 

to  ledge  19 

Of  battle-glory  dark  with  battle-shame; 
But    God    hath    hurled    them    from    the 

heights  of  fame 
Who  from  the  soul  took  no  eternal  pledge. 
Because  above  her  people  and  her  throne 
She  hath  erected  reason's  sovereignty; 
Because  wherever  human  speech  is  known 
The  touch  of  English  breath  doth  make 

thought   free; 
Therefore  forever  is  her  glory  blown 
About  the  hills,  and  flashed  beneath  the 


(1896) 

I  Gordon.  General  Charles  George  Gordon,  who 
was  killed  in  the  Soudan  in  1885. 

*  Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  The  Mac- 
millan   Company. 


THE   SECRET* 

GEORGE    EDWARD    WOODBERRY 

Nightingales  warble  about  it 
All  night  under  blossom  and  star; 

The  wild  swan  is  dying  without  it. 
And  the  eagle  crieth  afar; 

The  sun,  he  doth  mount  but  to  find  it. 
Searching  the  green  earth  o'er ; 

But  more  doth  a  man's  heart  mind  it — 

0  more,  more,  more ! 

Over  the  gray  leagues  of  ocean 

The  infinite  yearneth  alone ;  10 

The  forests  with  wandering  emotion 

The  thing  they  know  not  intone ; 
Creation  arose  but  to  see  it, 

A  million  lamps  in  the  blue; 
But  a  lover,  he  shall  be  it. 

If  one  sweet  maid  is  true. 

(1897) 

DRAKE'S  DRUM 

HENRY    NEWBOLT 

[This  is  a  sailor's  "chantey,"  in  praise  of  the 
great  British  Admiral,  Sir  Francis  Drake,  who 
was  born  in  Devonshire,  1540,  and  was  buried 
at  sea  in  the  Caribbean,  January,  1596.  The 
poem  embodies  one  of  many  legends  respecting 
Drake's  promise  to  return  to  the  help  of  Eng- 
land in  case   of  need.] 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand 
mile  away 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?). 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre 
Dios   Bay,^ 
An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth 
H0C.2 

Yarnder  lumes  the  island,  yarnder  He  the 
ships, 
Wi'  sailor  lads  a-dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
An'  the  shore-lights  flashin',  an'  the  night- 
tide  dashin', — 
He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et 
long  ago. 

Drake  he   was   a  Devon   man,   an'   ruled 

the  Devon  seas  9 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?)  ; 

Rovin'   tho'    his    death    fell,   he    went    wi' 

heart  at  ease. 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth 

Hoe. 

1  Nombre  Dios  Bay.  Off  the  Panama  coast;  the 
scene  of  Drake's  last  days. 

a  Plymouth  Hoe.     A  headland  at  Plymouth. 
•  Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  The  Mac- 
millan   Company, 


Z76 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


"Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by 
the  shore, 
Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin' 
low; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port 
o'  Heaven, 
An'  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we 
drummed  them  long  ago." 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great 
Armadas  come 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for 
the  drum, 
An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth 
Hoe.  20 

Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the 
Sound, 
Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe; 
Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old 
flag  flyin'. 
They  shall  find  him  ware  an'  wakin',  as 
they  found  him  long  ago! 

(1897) 


ALTRUISM 

DAVID    STARR    JORDAN 

[With  the  last  three  stanzas  the  reader  may 
compare  Tennyson's  "By  an  Evolutionist"  (page 
361)  and  Moody's  "The  Menagerie"  (page  379) 
as  examples  of  the  poetic  interpretation  of  the 
theory   of   biological   evolution.] 

"The  God  of  things  as  they  are" 
Is  the  God  of  the  highest  heaven; 

The  God  of  the  morning  star. 
Of  the  thrush  that  sings  at  even; 

The  God  of  the  storm  and  sunshine, 
Of  the  wolf,  the  snail,  and  the  bee, 

Of  the  Alp's  majestic  silence, 
Of  the  soundless  depths  of  the  sea; 

The  God  of  the  times  and  the  nations, 
Of  the  planets  as  they  roll,  10 

Of  the  numberless  constellations, 
Of  the  limitless  human  soul. 

For  there  is  nothing  small, 

And  naught  can  mighty  be; 
Archangels  and  atoms  all 

Embodiments  of  Thee! 

A  single  thought  divine 

Holds  stars  and   suns  in   space ; 
A  dream  of  man  is  Thine, 

And  history  finds  its  place.  20 


When  the  universe  was  young, 
Thine  was  the  perfect  thought 

That  life  should  be  bound  in  one 
By  the  strand  of  Love  inwrought. 

In  the  life  of  the  fern  and  the  lily. 

Of  the  dragon  and  the  dove, 
Still  through  the  stress  and  struggle 

Waxes  the  bond  of  Love. 

Out  from  the  ruthless  ages 

Rises,  like  incense  mild,  30 

The  love  of  the  man  and  the  woman, 

The  love  of  mother  and  child. 

(1897) 

RECESSIONAL 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

[Written  at  the  close  of  the  great  British 
festival  in  honor  of  the  60th  anniversary  of 
Victoria's   accession    to    the   throne.] 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old, 
Lord  of  our   far-flung  battle-line. 

Beneath  whose  awful  Hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies ; 

The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart : 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice. 

An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart.  10 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away; 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire: 
Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 

Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 
Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet. 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe. 

Such  boastings  as  the  Gentiles  use,         21 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet. 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard. 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding,  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word — 

Thy  mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord!  30 

(1897) 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS  377 

WHEN   THE  GREAT   GRAY   SHIPS   COME   IN* 

{New  York  Harbor,  August  20,  1898) 

GUY  WETMORE  CARRYL 

[On  the  conclusion  of  the  war  with  Spain. 1 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward  winging,  o'er  mapless  miles  of  sea, 
On  winds  and  tides  the  gospel  rides  that  the  furthermost  isles  are  free, 
And  the  furthermost  isles  make  answer;  harbor,  and  height,  and  hill. 
Breaker  and  beach  cry  each  to  each,  "  'Tis  the  Mother  who  calls !    Be  still !" 
Mother!  new-found,  beloved,  and  strong  to  hold  from  harm, 
Stretching  to  these  across  the  seas  the  shield  of  her  sovereign  arm, 
Who  summoned  the  guns  of  her  sailor  sons,  who  bade  her  navies  roam. 
Who  calls  again  to  the  leagues  of  main,  and  who  calls  them  this  time  home ! 

And  the  gjeat  gray  ships  are  silent,  and  the  weary  watchers  rest, 

The  black  cloud  dies  in  the  August  skies,  and  deep  in  the  golden  west  lo 

Invisible  hands  are  limning  a  glory  of  crimson  bars, 

And  far  above  is  the  wonder  of  a  myriad  wakened  stars! 

Peace!     As  the  tidings  silence  the  strenuous  cannonade. 

Peace  at  last !  is  the  bugle  blast  the  length  of  the  long  blockade, 

And  eyes  of  vigil  weary  are  lit  with  the  glad  release. 

From  ship  to  ship  and  from  lip  to  lip  it  is  "Peace !    Thank  God  for  peace." 

Ah,  in  the  sweet  hereafter  Columbia  still  shall  show 

The  sons  of  these  who  swept  the  seas  how  she  bade  them  rise  and  go, — 

How,  when  the  stirring  summons  smote  on  her  children's  ear. 

South  and  North  at  the  call  stood  forth,  and  the  whole  land  answered  "Here !"  20 

For  the  soul  of  the  soldier's  story  and  the  heart  of  the  sailor's  song 

Are  all  of  those  who  meet  their  foes  as  right  should  meet  with  wrong. 

Who  fight  their  guns  till  the  foeman  runs,  and  then,  on  the  decks  they  trod, 

Brave  faces  raise,  and  give  the  praise  to  the  grace  of  their  country's  God! 

Yes,  it  is  good  to  battle,  and  good  to  be  strong  and  free. 

To  carry  the  hearts  of  a  people  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  sea. 

To  see  the  day  steal  up  the  bay  where  the  enemy  lies  in  wait. 

To  run  your  ship  to  the  harbor's  lip  and  sink  her  across  the  strait : 

But  better  the  golden  evening  when  the  ships  round  heads  for  home, 

And  the  long  gray  miles  slip  swiftly  past  in  a  swirl  of  seething  foam,  30 

And  the  people  wait  at  the  haven's  gate  to  greet  the  men  who  win ! 

Thank  God  for  peace !     Thank  God  for  peace,  when  the  great  gray  ships  come  in ! 

(1898) 

UNMANIFEST   DESTINYf  Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 

RICHARD   HOVEY  The  Admiral  of  the  Nation  guides 

,         ,             ,                ,      „  .    ^  Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 

[Written    when    the    war    between    the    United  yy.      Uorhnr  whprp  fhv    fntnr*.  rJrl^c  t 

States    and    Spain    had    brought    into    use    the  ^  "^  narDor  where  ttty   luture  tides! 
phrase     "manifest    destiny,"    with    reference    to 

the  new  world-policy  of  the  nation.]  I^e  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington            9 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far  _  ^"ew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend,  ^he  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson 

Beneath  what  unexpected  star.  To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 
Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end, 

*  From    "The    Garden    of    Years    and    Other      To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run, 
Poems,"  courtesy  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  pub-  What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame? 

'%  Reprinted   by    special   permission    of    Duffield       ^^^°   ^^^  behind   the   cloud   the   Sun  ? 
&  Company.  vv  ho  knew  that  God  was  m  the  name  ? 


378 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come, 
The  slave's  emancipated  feet  19 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned ; 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds. 
My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 
Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate; 

I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  great. 

(1898) 


And  the  loveliest  lyric  I  ever  heard 
Was    the    wildwood    strain    of    a    forest 

bird.— 
If  the  wind  and  the  brook  and  the  bird 

would  teach 
My  heart  their  beautiful  parts  of  speech, 
And  the  natural  art  that  they  say  these 

with,  9 

My  soul  would  sing  of  beauty  and  myth 
In  a  rhyme  and  metre  that  none  before 
Have  sung  in  their   love,  or  dreamed  in 

their  lore, 
And  the  world  would  be  richer  one  poet 

the  more. 

(1899) 


TWO  TAVERNS 

EDWIN    MARKHAM 

I  remember  how  I  lay 

On  a  bank  a  summer  day. 

Where  the  poppies  in  full  f!ower 

Danced  away  their  golden  hour. 

Till  the  air  grew  strangely  chill 

At  the  darkening  of  the  hill; 

Then  I  saw  a  wild  bee  dart 

Out  of  the  cold  to  the  poppy's  heart; 

Saw  the  petals  gently  spin, 

And  shut  the  little  lodger  in.  10 

Then  I  took  the  quiet  road 

To  my  own  secure  abode. 

All  night  long  his  tavern  hung; 

Now  it  rested,  now  it  swung; 

I  asleep  in  steadfast  tower, 

He  asleep  in  stirring  flower; 

In  our  hearts  the  same  delight 

In  the  hushes  of  the  night; 

Over  us  both  the  same  dear  care, 

As  we  slumbered  unaware.  20 

(1899) 


PRELUDE  * 

MADISON  CAWEIN 

There  is  no  rhyme  that  is  half  so  sweet 
As  the  song  of  the  wind  in  the  rippling 

wheat ; 
There  is  no  metre  that's  half  so  fine 
As  the  lilt  of  the  brook  under  rock  and 

vine; 

•  Copyright  by   the  Macmillan   Company.     Re- 
printed by  special  permission. 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 

WILLIAM   VAUGHN    MOODY 

[The  reader  should  note  carefully  how  the 
image  of  earth  as  a  ship  (lines  28-36),  seem- 
ingly suggested  by  the  scene  on  the  Massachu- 
setts coast,  controls  the  whole  further  develop- 
ment of  the  poem,  when  the  theme  changes 
from  landscape  to  the  problem  of  man  in  so- 
ciety.] 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town 
Where  the  fishing  fleets  put  in, 
A  mile  ahead  the  land  dips  down 
And  the  woods  and  farms  begin. 
Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon. 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  talking  sea. 
And  the  racing  winds  that  wheel  and  fiee 
On  the  flying  heels  of  June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue,  10 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  wild  geranium  holds  its  dew 

Long  in  the  boulder's  shade. 

Wax-red  hangs  the  cup 

From  the  huckleberry  boughs, 

In  barberry  bells  the  gray  moths  sup, 

Or  where  the  choke-cherry  lifts  high  up 

Sweet  bowls  for  their  carouse. 

Over  the  shelf  of  the  sandy  cove 

Beach-peas   blossom   late.  20 

By  copse  and  cliff  the  swallows  rove 

Each   calling  to   his   mate. 

Seaward  the  sea-gulls  go. 

And  the  land-birds   all  are  here; 

That  green-gold  flash  was  a  vireo. 

And  yonder  flame  where  the  marsh-flags 

grow 
Was  a  scarlet  tanager. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


379 


This  earth  is  not  the  steadfast  place 

We  landsmen  build  upon ; 

From  deep  to  deep  she  varies  pace,      30 

And  while  she  comes  is  gone. 

Beneath  my  feet  I  feel 

Her  smooth  bulk  heave  and  dip ; 

With  velvet  plunge  and  soft  upreel 

She  swings  and  steadies  to  her  keel 

Like  a  gallant,  gallant  ship. 

These  summer  clouds  she  sets  for  sail, 
The  sun  is  her  mast-head  light. 
She  tows  the  moon  like  a  pinnace  frail 
Where  her  phosphor  wake  churns  bright. 
Now  hid,  now  looming  clear,  41 

On  the  face  of  the  dangerous  blue 
The  star-fleets  tack  and  wheel  and  veer. 
But  on,  but  on  does  the  old  earth  steer 
As  if  her  port  she  knew. 


There  is  cash  to  purse  and  spend, 
There  are  wives  to  be  embraced, 
Hearts  to  borrow  and  hearts  to  lend. 
And  hearts  to  take  and  keep  to  the  end, — 
O  little  sails,  make  haste!  81 

But   thou,   vast   outbound   ship   of   souls. 

What  harbor  town   for  thee? 

What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls,^ 

Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see? 

Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 

Stand  singing  brotherly? 

Or  shall  a  haggard  ruthless  few 

Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  to, 

While  the  many  broken  souls  of  men      90 

Fester  down  in  the  slaver's  pen. 

And  nothing  to  say  or  do? 

(1900) 


God,  dear  God !    Does  she  know  her  port, 

Though  she  goes  so  far  about? 

Or  blind  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out? 

I  watched  when  her  captains  passed :    50 

She  were  better  captainless. 

Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 

But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast. 

And  some  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caught 
Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold, — 
Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 
And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 
Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see ; 
But  they  said,  "Thou  art  not  of  us !"    60 
I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 
And  cried,  "Give  help !"     But  they  said, 

"Let  be: 
Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground   is    purple   blue. 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid. 

The  alder-clurrvp  where  the  brook  comes 

through 
Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 
To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street 
With  its  swelter  and  its  sin ! 
Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet,  70 

And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat? 
And  when  will  his  wage  come  in? 

Scattering  wide  or  blown  in  ranks. 
Yellow  and  white  and  brown, 
Boats  and  boats  from  the  fishing  banks 
Come  home  to  Gloucester  town. 


THE  MENAGERIE 

WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 

[This  is  a  dramatic  monologue,  from  which  the 
reader  must  infer  indirectly  the  scene  and  the 
character  of  the  person  speaking.  Lines  41-50, 
61-70,  and  101-115  are  among  the  most  remarka- 
ble passages  in  which  the  biological  theory  of 
evolution  has  been  interpreted  by  poetry.] 

Thank  God  my  brain  is  not  inclined  to  cut 
Such  capers  every  day!     I'm  just  about 
Mellow,   but  then — There  goes   the  tent- 
flap  shut. 
Rain's  in  the  wind.     I  thought  so :  every 

snout 
Was  twitching  when  the  keeper  turned  me 
out. 

That  screaming  parrot  makes   my  blood 

run  cold. 
Gabriel's  trump !  the  big  bull  elephant 
Squeals  "Rain"  to  the  parched  herd.    The 

monkeys   scold,  8 

And  jabber  that  it's  rain  water  they  want. 
(It  makes  me  sick  to  see  a  monkey  pant.) 

I'll  foot  it  home,  to  try  and  make  believe 
I'm  sober.     After  this  I   stick  to  beer. 
And  drop  the  circus  when  the  sane  folks 

leave. 
A  man's  a  fool  to  look  at  things  too  near : 
They  look  back,  and  begin  to  cut  up  queer. 

I  An  allusion  to  the  custom  of  tolling  the  wharf- 
bell  as  announcement  of  a  homecoming  fishing 
schooner, 


380 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


Beasts  do,  at  any  rate;   especially 
Wild  devils  caged.    They  have  the  coolest 

way 
Of  being  something  else  than  what  you 

see :  i8 

You  pass  a  sleek  young  zebra  nosing  hay, 
A  nylghau  looking  bored  and  distingue, — 

And  think  you've  seen  a  donkey  and  a 

bird. 
Not  on  your  life !    Just  glance  back,  if  you 

dare. 
The    zebra    chews,    the    nylghau    hasn't 

stirred ; 
But  something's  happened.  Heaven  knows 

what  or  where. 
To  freeze  your  scalp  and  pompadour  your 

hair. 

I'm  not  precisely  an  aeolian  lute 
Hung  in  the  wandering  winds  of  senti- 
ment, 
But    drown    me    if   the    ugliest,    meanest 
brute  28 

Grunting  and  fretting  in  that  sultry  tent 
Didn't  just  floor  me  with  embarrassment ! 

'Twas  like  a  thunder-clap   from  out  the 

clear, — 
One  minute  they  were  circus  beasts,  some 

grand. 
Some    ugly,    some    amusing,    and    some 

queer: 
Rival  attractions  to  the  hobo  band, 
The  flying  jenny,  and  the  peanut  stand. 

Next  minute  there  were  old  hearth-mates 
of  mine ! 

Lost  people,  eyeing  me  with  such  a  stare ! 

Patient,  satiric,  devilish,  divine; 

A  gaze  of  hopeless  envy,  squalid  care, 

Hatred,  and  thwarted  love,  and  dim  de- 
spair. 40 

Within    my    blood    my    ancient    kindred 

spoke, — 
Grotesque  and  monstrous  voices,  heard  afar 
Down  ocean  caves  when  behemoth  awoke, 
Or  through  fern   forests  roared  the  ple- 

siosaur 
Locked  with  the  giant-bat  in  ghastly  war. 

And  suddenly,  as  in  a  flash  of  light, 

I  saw  great  Nature  working  out  her  plan ; 

Through  all  her  shapes  from  mastodon  to 

mite 
Forever  groping,  testing,  passing  on       49 
To  find  at  last  the  shape  and  soul  of  Man. 


Till  in  the  fulness  of  accomplished  time. 
Comes  brother  Forepaugh,^  upon  business 

bent, 
Tracks  her  through   frozen  and  through 

torrid  clime, 
And  shows  us,  neatly  labeled  in  a  tent, 
The  stages  of  her  huge  experiment; 

Blabbing  aloud  her  shy  and  reticent  hours ; 

Dragging  to  light  her  blinking,  slothful 
moods ; 

Publishing  fretful  seasons  when  her  pow- 
ers 

Worked  wild  and  sullen  in  her  solitudes, 

Or  when  her  mordant  laughter  shook  the 
woods.  60 

Here,  round  about  me,  were  her  vagrant 

births ; 
Sick  dreams  she  had,   fierce  projects   she 

essayed ; 
Her  qualms,  her  fiery  prides,   her  crazy 

mirths ; 
The  troublings  of  her  spirit  as  she  strayed, 
Cringed,  gloated,  mocked,  was  lordly,  was 

afraid, 

On  that  long  road  she  went  to  seek  man- 
kind; 
Here  were  the  darkling  coverts  that  she  beat 
To  find  the  Hider  she  was  sent  to  find ; 
Here  the  distracted  footprints  of  her  feet 
Whereby  her  soul's  Desire  she  came  to 
greet.  70 

But  why  should  they,  her  botch-work,  turn 

about 
And  stare  disdain  at  me,  her  finished  job? 
Why  was  the  place  one  vast  suspended 

shout 
Of  laughter?     Why  did  all  the  daylight 

throb 
With  soundless  guffaw  and  dumb-stricken 

5ob? 

Helpless  I  stood  among  those  awful  cages; 
The  beasts  were  walking  loose,  and  I  was 

bagged ! 
I,  I,  last  product  of  the  toiling  ages. 
Goal  of  heroic  feet  that  never  lagged, — 
A  little  man  in  trousers,  slightly  jagged. 

Deliver  me  from  such  another  jury!      81 
The  Judgment-day  will  be  a  picnic  to't. 
Their  satire  was  more  dreadful  than  their 

fury. 
And  worst  of  all  was  just  a  kind  of  brute 
Disgust,  and  giving  up,  and  sinking  mute. 

I   Fcrtpaugh.     The  proprietor  of  the  menagerie. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


381 


Survival  of  the  fittest,  adaptation, 
And  all  their  other  evolution  terms. 
Seem  to  omit  one  small  consideration. 
To  wit,  that  tumblebugs  and  angleworms 
Have    souls :    there's    soul    in    everything 
that  squirms.  90 

And  souls  are  restless,  plagued,  impatient 

things. 
All  dream  and  unaccountable  desire ; 
Crawling,  but  pestered  with  the  thought 

of  wings ; 
Spreading  through  every  inch  of  earth's 

old  mire 
Mystical  hanker  after  something  higher. 

Wishes  are  horses,  as  I  understand. 
I  guess  a  wistful  polyp  that  has  strokes 
Of  feeling  faint  to  gallivant  on  land 
Will  come  to  be  a  scandal  to  his  folks; 
Legs  he  will  sprout,   in   spite  of  threats 
and  jokes.  100 

And  at  the  core  of  every  life  that  crawls 
Or  runs  or  flies  or  swims  or  vegetates — 
Churning  the  mammoth's  heart-blood,  in 

the  galls 
Of    shark    and    tiger    planting    gorgeous 

hates. 
Lighting    the    love    of    eagles    for    their 

mates ; 

Yes,  in  the  dim  brain  of  the  jellied  fish 
That    is    and    is    not   living — moved   and 

stirred 
From  the  beginning  a  mysterious  wish, 
A  vision,  a  command,  a  fatal  Word : 
The  name  of  Man  was  uttered,  and  they 

heard,  no 

Upward  along  the  aeons  of  old  war 
They  sought  him :  wing  and  shank-bone, 

claw  and  bill 
Were   fashioned  aud  rejected;   wide  and 

far 
They  roamed  the  twilight  jungles  of  their 

will; 
But  still  they  sought  him,  and  desired  him 

still. 

Man  they  desired,  but  mind  you.  Perfect 

Man, 
The  radiant  and  the  loving,  yet  to  be ! 
I  hardly  wonder,  when  they  came  to  scan 
The  upshot  of  their  strenuosity. 
They   gazed   with   mixed   emotions   upon 

me.  120 


Well,  my  advice  to  you  is,  Face  the  crea- 
tures. 

Or  spot  them  sideways  with  your  weather 
eye. 

Just  to  keep  tab  on  their  expansive  fea- 
tures ; 

It  isn't  pleasant  when  you're  stepping  high 

To  catch  a  giraffe  smiling  on  the  sly. 

If  nature  made  you  graceful,   don't  get 

gay 
Back-to  before  the  hippopotamus ; 
If  meek  and  godly,  find  some  place  to  play 
Besides    right    where    three    mad    hyenas 

fuss : 
You  may   hear  language   that  we  won't 

discuss.  130 

If  you're  a  sweet  thing  in  a  flower-bed  hat. 
Or  her  best  fellow  with  your  tie  tucked  in, 
Don't   squander   love's   bright   springtime 

girding  at 
An  old  chimpanzee  with  an  Irish  chin : 
There  may  be  hidden  meaning  in  his  grin. 

(1901) 

SEA   FEVER* 

JOHN    MASEFIELD 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the 

lonely  sea  and  the  sky. 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to 

steer  her  by; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song 

and  the  white  sail's  shaking. 
And  a  gray  mist  on  the  sea's   face,  and 

a  gray  dawn  breaking. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the 

call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may 

not  be  denied; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with   the 

white  clouds  flying. 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume, 

and  the  sea-gulls  crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the 

vagrant  gypsy  life. 
To  the  gull's   way   and  the   whale's   way, 

where  the  wind's  like  a  whetted  knife; 
And  all   I   ask   is   a  merry  yarn    from  a 

laughing  fellow-rover,  11 

And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when 

the  long  trick's  over. 
(1902) 

•  Reprinted    by    special    permission    from    the 
author  and   the   publishers. 


382 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


KEW  IN  LILAC-TIME 

ALFRED    NOYES 

[One  of  the  lyrics  supposed  to  be  heard  by  the 
poet  in  the  music  of  a  street-piano  in  London; 
from  a  long  poem  called  "The  Barrel-Organ."] 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac- 
time,  in  lilac-time; 
Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't 
far  from  London!) 

And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with 
love  in  summer's  wonderland; 

Go  down   to   Kew   in   lilac-time    (it   isn't 
far  from  London!). 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and 
soft  perfume  and  sweet  perfume, 
The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  (and 
oh,  so  near  to  London!), 
And  there,  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high 
and  all  the  world's  a  blaze  of  sky. 
The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will 
sing  a  song  for  London, 

The  Dorian  nightingale  is   rare  and  yet 
they  say  you'll  hear  him  there 
At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh, 
so  near  to  London!),  lo 

The  linnet  and  the  throstle,  too,  and  after 
dark  the  long  halloo 
And   golden-eyed    tu-whit,    tu-whoo   of 
owls  that  ogle  London. 

For  Noah  hardly  knew  a  bird  of  any  kind 
that  isn't  heard 
At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh, 
so  near  to  London ! ) , 
And  when  the  rose  begins  to  pout  and  all 
the  chestnut  spires  are  out 
You'll  hear  the  rest  without  a  doubt,  all 
chorusing  for  London  : — 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac- 
time,  in  lilac-time; 
Come   down   to   Kew  in  lilac-time    (it 
isn't  far  from  London!), 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with 
love  in  summer's  wonderland; 
Come    down   to   Kew  in   lilac-time    (it 
isn't  far  from  London!).  20 

(1904) 

IN   THE  COOL  OF  THE  EVENING 

ALFRED    NOYES 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  the  low 
sweet  whispers  waken. 
When  the  laborers  turn  them  homeward, 
and  the  weary  have  their  will, 


When  the  censers  of  the  roses   o'er  the 
forest-aisles  are  shaken, 
Is  it  but  the  wind  that  cometh  o'er  the 
far  green  hill? 

For  they  say  'tis  but  the  sunset  winds  that 
wander  through  the  heather, 
Rustle  all  the  meadow-grass  and  bend 
the  dewy  fern; 
They  say  'tis  but  the  winds  that  bow  the 
reeds  in  prayer  together. 
And  fill  the  shaken  pools  with  fire  along 
the  shadowy  burn, 

In  the  beauty  of  the  twilight,  in  the  Gar- 
den that  He  loveth, 
They    have   veiled    His    lovely    vesture 
with  the  darkness  of  a  name !  10 

Thro'  His  Garden,  thro'  His  Garden  it  is 
but  the  wind  that  moveth, 
No  more;  but  O,  the  miracle,  the  mira- 
cle is  the  same ! 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  the  sky 
is  an  old  story 
Slowly  dying,  but  remembered,  ay,  and 
loved   with  passion   still, 
Hush !   .    .    .   the  fringes  of  His  garment, 
in  the  fading  golden  glory. 
Softly  rustling  as  He  cometh  o'er  the 
far  green  hill. 

(1907) 

SOMETIMES* 

THOMAS  S.  JONES,  Jr. 

Across  the  fields  of  yesterday 

He  sometimes  comes  to  me, 
A  little  lad  just  back  from  play — 

The  lad  I  used  to  be. 

And  yet  he  smiles  so  wistfully 

Once  he  has  crept  within, 
I  wonder  if  he  hopes  to  see 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 

(1907) 

TO   A   GREEK   BOOTBLACKf 

O.    W.    FIRKINS 

In  a  dusk  and  scant  retreat^ 
Fronting  on  the  noisy  street, 
Six  lads,  quick  of  hands  and  feet, 
Ply  a  trade  for  song  unmeet. 
In  the  passer's  careless  view : 

•  Reprinted  from  "The  Rose-Jar,"  published 
by  Thomas  Bird  Mosher,  by  special  permission 
of    the   author, 

t  Reprinted  by  special  permission  from  the 
author  and   The  .Itlaiilic  Monthly. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


383 


I,  from  Saxon  loins  that  rose — 
Churl  or  swain  or  serf — who  knows? — 
High-reared,  propping  heels  and  toes, 
Brood  in  meditant  repose 
O'er  the  Greek  who  blacks  my  shoe,     lo 


Round  black  head  that  fronts  my  knees, 
Cheeks  whose  tint  might  tempt  the  bees, 
Profile  scarcely   formed  to  please 
Myron  or  Praxiteles,^ 

Yet  of  dainty  mould  and  coy; 
Eyes  whose  owner  ne'er  may  guess 
What  appealing  tenderness. 
Dream-like  in  their  veiled  recess, 
Deep  and  dark  their  spheres  express — 

Longings  alien  to  the  boy.  20 

Reascends  the  ancient  aeon  : 
Winds  that  o'er  the  broad  .Egean 
Skyward  lift  the  joyous  paean, 
Chanted  as  with  pipes  Pandaean^ 

O'er  the  Persian's  broken  line; 
Trail  of  purple-hemmed  himations,' 
Foam  and  fragrance  of  libations, 
Viols,  harp  and  flute  vibrations, 

Olives,  and  the  Chian  vine.* 

Not  for  him  the  dream  is  spun;  30 

From  his  lips,  unheeding  one, 
In  a  lasting  torrent  run 
Accents  strange  to  Xenophon, 

Tones   Cithaeron^   never  knew: 
What  to  him  the  ages'  sickle? 
What  the  thought  that  time  is  fickle? 
Brisk,  he  takes  the  proffered  nickel; 

Eager,  seeks  the  waiting  shoe. 

Meagre,  in  this  narrowed  sluice, 
Flows  the  rich-hued  Attic  juice;  40 

Shrunken  ward  of  fallen  Zeus, 
I  thy  sandal   should   unloose — 

Sandals — they  are  vanished  too ! 
Sad  eclipse  of  antique  splendor ! 
Poor  blue  shirt  and  crossed  suspender! 
Tribute  gladly  would  I  render; 
Tears,  or  smiles  than  tears  more  tender — 

Little  Greek  that  blacks  my  shoe. 

(1908) 

I  Greek  sculptors. 

3  pipes    Pandaan.     Pipes    which    the    god   Pan 
was  said  to  have  invented  and  played. 

3  himations.     Greek  outer  garments. 

4  Chian  vine.     Wine  from  Chianti. 

5  Citharon.     A  mountain  region  of  Greece. 


MIMMA  BELLA 

EUGENE    LEE-HAMILTON 

[From   a   series   of   sonnets,    called   by    the    same 
title,    in    memory   of   the    poet's   little   daughter.] 

Lo,  through  the  open  window  of  the  room 
That    was    her    nursery,    a    small    bright 

spark 
Comes  wandering  in,  as  falls  the  summer 

dark. 
And  with  a  measured  flight  explores  the 

gloom. 
As   if   it   sought,    among  the   things   that 

loom 
Vague    in   the    dusk,    for   some    familiar 

mark. 
And  like  a  light  on  some  wee  unseen  bark. 
It  tacks  in  search  of  who  knows  what  or 

whom? 

I  know  'tis  but  a  fire-fly ;  yet  its  flight. 
So  straight,  so  measured,  round  the  empty 

bed,  10 

Might  be   a  little   soul's   that   night   sets 

free; 
And  as  it  nears,   I   feel  my  heart  grow 

tight 
With     something     like     a     superstitious 

dread. 
And  watch  it  breathless,  lest  it  should  be 

she. 

(1909) 

A   LITTLE   SONG   OF  LIFE* 

LIZETTE    WOODWORTH    REESE 

Glad  that  I  live  am  I ; 
That  the  sky  is  blue; 
Glad  for  the  country  lanes, 
And  the  fall  of  dew. 

After  the  sun  the  rain, 
After  the  rain  the  sun; 
This  is  the  way  of  life, 
Till  the  work  be  done. 

All  that  we  need  to  do, 

Be  we  low  or  high,  10 

Is  to  see  that  we  grow 

Nearer   the   sky. 

(1909) 

*  Reprinted    from   "A   Wayside   Lute"   by   spe- 
cial permission   of   Thomas   Bird   Mosher. 


384  POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 

SATURDAY   NIGHT* 

JAMES    OPPENHEIM 

The  lights  of  Saturday  night  beat  golden,  golden  over  the  pillared  street; 
The  long  plate-glass  of  a  Dream-World  olden  is  as  the  footlights  shining  sweet. 
Street-lamp — flambeau — glamor  of  trolley — comet-trail  of  the  trains  above, 
Splash  where  the  jostling  crowds  are  jolly  with  echoing  laughter  and  human  love. 

This  is  the  City  of  the  Enchanted,  and  these  are  her  enchanted  people; 
Far  and  far  is  Daylight,  haunted  with  whistle  of  mill  and  bell  of  steeple. 
The  eastern  tenements  loose  the  women,  the  western  flats  release  the  wives 
To  touch,  where  all  the  ways  are  common,  a  glory  to  their  sweated  lives. 

The  leather  of  shoes  in  the  brilliant  casement  sheds  a  lustre  over  the  heart; 

The  high-heaped  fruit  in  the  flaring  basement  glows  with  the  tints  of  Turner's  art.     lo 

Darwin's  dream  and  the  eye  of  Spencer  saw  not  such  a  gloried  race^ 

As  here,  in  copper  light  intenser  than  desert  sun,  glides  face  by  face. 

This  drab  washwoman  dazed  and  breathless,  ray-chiseled  in  the  golden  stream. 

Is  a  magic  statue  standing  deathless,  her  tub  and  soap-suds  touched  with  Dream. 

Yea,  in  this  people,  glamor-sunnied,  democracy  wins  heaven  again; 

Here  the  unlearned  and  the  unmoneyed  laugh  in  the  lights  of  Lover's  Lane! 

O  Dream-World  lights  that  lift  through  the  ether  millions  of  miles  to  the  Milky  Way! 
To-night  earth  rolls  through  a  golden  weather  that  lights  the  Pleiades  where  they 

play ! 
Yet — God?    Does  he  lead  these  sons  and  daughters?    Yea,  do  they  feel  with  a  passion 

that  stills, 
God  on  the  face  of  the  moving  waters,  God  in  the  quiet  of  the  hills?  20 

Yet — what  if  the  million-mantled  mountains,  and  what  if  the  million-moving  sea 
Are  here  alone  in  fagades  and  fountains — our  deep  stone-world  of  humanity — 
We  builders  of  cities  and  civilizations,  walled  away  from  the  sea  and  the  sod. 
Must  reach,  dream-led,  for  our  revelations  through  one  another — as  far  as  God. 

Through  one  another — through  one  another — no  more  the  gleam  on  sea  or  land, 
But  so  close  that  we  see  the  Brother,  and  understand — and  understand! 
Till,  drawn  in  swept  crowd  closer,  closer,  we  see  the  gleam  in  the  human  clod. 
And  clerk  and  foreman,  peddler  and  grocer,  are  in  our  Family  of  God ! 

(1909) 

r-r^-KicT,  KT^T^c^A.  Wc  were  dear;  we  were  leal;2  O,  far  we 

COMRADES t  went  straying; 

GEORGE    EDWARD    WOODBERRY  ^?*  '^^^^  ^  ^^^"^  t°  '"y  ^^^'"^  ^^O^^^S 

hommg ! — 

[In    the    original    form    these    are    the    opening       ^xn „  •     u  ^i.      j      1     u  1      j 

stanzas  of  a  longer  poem.]  Where  IS  he  now,  the  dark  boy  slender 

Where   are   the    friends   that   I   knew   in  ^^^  ^^.^^ht  me  bare-back,  stirrup  and 

my  Maying,  ^^'"s..        ,      ,        .                  u       .-r  1 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  in  the  first  of  ^  ^o^^^  him;  he  loved  me;  my  beautiful, 

my  roaming?  tender 

•From  a  volume  entitled  "Monday  Morning."  Tamer  of  horses  on  grass-grown  plains. 

Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers 

and   the  author.  i  Darwin  and  Spencer  developed  the  doctrine 

t  Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  The  Mac-  of  the  evolution  of  man. 

miilan   Company.  3  leal.     Loyal. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


385 


Where    is    he    now    whose    eyes    swam 
brighter, 
Softer     than     love,     in     his     turbulent 
charms ;  lO 

Who   taught    me   to   strike,    and    to    fall, 
dear  fighter. 
And    gathered    me   up    in   his    boyhood 
arms; 
Taught  me  the  rifle,  and  with  me  went 
riding, 
Suppled    my    limbs    to    the    horseman's 
war; 
Where  is  he  now,  for  whom  my  heart's 
biding. 
Biding,  biding — but  he  rides  far ! 

0  love  that  passes  the  love  of  woman ! 
Who  that  hath  felt  it  shall  ever  forget, 

When   the   breath   of   life   with   a   throb 
turns  human. 
And  a  lad's  heart  is  to  a  lad's  heart  set? 
Ever,  forever,  lover  and  rover —  21 

They  shall  cling,  nor  each   from  other 
shall  part 
Till  the  reign  of  the  stars  in  the  heavens 
be  over, 
And  life  is  dust  in  each  faithful  heart! 

(1910) 
THE   CONQUEST   OF  THE  AIR* 

HAROLD  T.   PULSIFER 

With  a  thunder-driven  heart 

And  the  shimmer  of  new  wings, 
I,  a  worm  that  was,  upstart. 
King  of  kings ! 

1  have  heard  the  singing  stars, 

I  have  watched  the  sunset  die, 
As  I  burst  the  lucent  bars 
Of  the  sky. 

Lo,  the  argosies  of  Spain, 

As  they  plowed  the  naked  brine,  10 

Found  no  heaven-girded  main 
Like  to  mine. 

Soaring  from  the  clinging  sod. 

First  and  foremost  of  my  race, 
I  have  met  the  hosts  of  God 
Face  to  face : 

Met  the  tempest  and  the  gale 

Where  the  white  moon-riven  cloud 
Wrapped  the  splendor  of  my  sail 

In  a  shroud.  20 

*  From  "Mothers  and  Men,"  published  by 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  copyright,  1916.  Re- 
printed  by  permission  of  author. 


Where  the  ghost  of  winter  fled 

Swift  I  followed  with  the  snow, 
Like  a  silver  arrow  sped 
From  a  bow. 

I  have  trailed  the  summer  south 

Like  a   flash   of  burnished  gold, 
When  she  fled  the  hungry  mouth 
Of  the  cold. 

I  have  dogged  the  ranging  sun 

Till  the  world  became  a  scroll ;  30 

All  the  oceans,  one  by  one, 
Were  my  goal. 

Other  winged  men  may  come. 

Pierce  the  heavens,  chart  the  sky 
Sound  an  echo  to  my  drum 
Ere  I  die. 

I  alone  have  seen  the  earth. 

Age-old  fetters  swept  aside, 
In  the  glory  of  new  birth — 

Deified !  40 

(1910) 


THE   UNCONQUERED   AIR* 

FLORENCE   EARLE   COAXES 

I 

(1906) 

Others  endure  Man's  rule :   he  therefore 

deems 
I  shall  endure  it — I,  the  unconquered  Air ! 
Imagines    this    triumphant    strength    may 

bear 
His  paltry  sway !  yea,  ignorantly  dreams. 
Because    proud    Rhea^    now    his    vassal 

seems. 
And  Neptune^  him  obeys  in  billowy  lair. 
That  he  a  more  sublime  assault  may  dare. 
Where  blown  by  tempest  wild  the  vulture 

screams ! 
Presumptuous,    he    mounts:    I    toss    his 

bones 
Back    from    the    height    supernal    he    has 

braved :  10 

Ay,  as  his  vessel  nears  my  perilous  zones, 
I  blow  the  cockle-shell  away  like  chaff 
And  give  him  to  the  Sea  he  has  enslaved. 
He    founders    in   its   depths;    and    then    I 

laugh ! 

1  Rhea.     A  goddess  of  earth. 

2  Neptune.     The  sea-god. 

*  Reprinted    by    special    permission    from    the 
author. 


386 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


(1911) 

Impregnable  I  held  myself,  secure 
Against    intrusion.      Who    can    measure 

Man? 
How  should  I  guess  his  mortal  will  out- 
ran 
Defeat  so  far  that  danger  could  allure 
For  its  own  sake? — that  he  would  all  en- 
dure, 
All  sacrifice,  all  suffer,  rather  than         20 
Forego  the  daring  dreams  Olympian 
That  prophesy  to  him  of  victory  sure? 
Ah,  tameless  Courage  ! — dominating  power 
That,  all  attempting,  in  a  deathless  hour 
Made   earth-born   Titans^   godlike,   in   re- 
volt !— 
Fear  is  the  fire  that  melts  Icarian  wings  :2 
Who  fears  nor  Fate,  nor  Time,  nor  what 

Time  brings, 
May  drive  Apollo's  steeds,  or  wield  the 
thunderbolt ! 

(1911) 


"SCUM  O'  THE  EARTH" 

ROBERT    HAVEN    SCHAUFFLER 

[The  scene  of  this  poem  is  set  at  the  United 
States  immigrant  station  in  New  York  harbor. 
Compare  the  poetic  argument  for  a  liberal  atti- 
tude toward  the  immigrant  class,  with  that  ex- 
pressed in   Aldrich's  poem,  page   366.] 

At  the  gate  of  the  West  I  stand, 
On  the  isle  where  the  nations  throng. 
We  call  them  "scum  o'  the  earth" ; 
Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong. 
Young  fellow  from  Socrates'  land? — 
You,  like  a  Hermes  so  lissome  and  strong 
Fresh  from  the  master  Praxiteles'  hand? 
So  you're  of  Spartan  birth? 
Descended,    perhaps,    from    one    of    the 

band — 
Deathless  in  story  and  song —  10 

Who   combed    their   long   hair   at    Ther- 
mopylae's pass? 
Ah,  I  forget  the  straits,  alas ! 
More  tragic  than  theirs,  more  compassion- 
worth. 
That  have  doomed  you  to  march   in  our 

"immigrant  class" 
Where  you're   nothing  but   "scum  o'   the 
earth." 

1  Titans.  Who  dared  to  war  against  the  ancient 
gods. 

2  Icarian  wings.  Icarus  made  wings  for  him- 
self, but  when  he  flew  too  near  the  sun,  the  wax 
that  held  them  melted,  and  he  fell  into  the  sea. 


You  Pole  with  the  child  on  your  knee, 

What  dower  bring  you  to  the  land  of  the 
free? 

Hark !  does  she  croon 

That  sad  little  tune 

That  Chopin  once  found  on  his  Polish 
lea  20 

And  mounted  in  gold  for  you  and  for  me? 

Now  a  ragged  young  fiddler  answers 

In  wild  Czech  melody 

That  Dvorak  took  whole  from  the  dan- 
cers. 

And  the  heavy  faces  bloom 

In  the  wonderful  Slavik  way; 

The  little,  dull  eyes,  the  brows  a-gloom, 

Suddenly  dawn  like  the  day. 

While,  watching  these  folk  and  their  mys- 
tery, 

I  forget  that  they're  nothing  worth;      30 

That  Bohemians,  Slovaks,  Croatians, 

And  men  of  all  Slavik  nations 

Are  "polacks" — and  "scum  o'  the  earth." 

Genoese  boy  of  the  level  brow. 
Lad  of  the  lustrous,  dreamy  eyes 
A-stare  at  Manhattan's  pinnacles  now 
In  the  first  sweet  shock  of  a  hushed  sur- 
prise; 
Within  your  far-rapt  seer's  eyes 
I  catch  the  glow  of  the  wild  surmise 
That  played  on  the  Santa  Maria's  3  prow 
In  that  still  gray  dawn,  41 

Four  centuries  gone. 
When  a   world   from  the  wave  began  to 

rise. 
Oh,  it's   hard  to   foretell   what  high  em- 
prise 
Is  the  goal  that  gleams 
When  Italy's  dreams 
Spread  wing  and  sweep  into  the  skies. 
Caesar  dreamed  him  a  world  ruled  well; 
Dante  dreamed  Heaven  out  of  Hell; 
Angelo  brought  us  there  to  dwell;  50 

And  you,  are  you  of  a  different  birth? — 
You're  only  a  "dago," — and  "scum  o'  the 
earth" ! 

Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong 
Calling  you  "scum  o'  the  earth," 
Man  of  the  sorrow-bowed  head. 
Of  the   features  tender  yet  strong, — • 
Man  of  the  eyes  full  of  wisdom  and  mys- 
tery 
Mingled  with  patience  and  dread? 
Have  not  I  known  you  in  history, 
Sorrow-bowed  head?  60 

3  Santa  Maria.     Columbus's  ship. 


LYRICAL   AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


387 


Were  you  the   poet-king,^   worth 

Treasures  of  Ophir  unpriced? 

Were  you  the  prophet,  perchance,  whose 
art 

Foretold  how  the  rabble  would  mock 

That  shepherd  of  spirits,  erelong, 

Who  should  carry  the  lambs  on  his  heart 

And  tenderly  feed  his  flock?- 

Man — lift  that  sorrow-bowed  head. 

Lo !  'tis  the  face  of  the  Christ ! 

The  vision  dies  at  its  birth.  70 

You're  merely  a  butt  for  our  mirth. 

You're  a  "sheeny"  —  and  therefore  de- 
spised 

And  rejected  as  "scum  o'  the  earth." 

Countrymen,  bend  and  invoke 

Mercy   for   us   blasphemers, 

For  that  we  spat  on  this  marvellous  folk, 

Nations  of  darers  and  dreamers, 

Scions  of  singers  and  seers, 

Our  peers,  and  more  than  our  peers. 

"Rabble  and  refuse"  we  name  them,      80 

And  "scum  0'  the  earth,"  to  shame  them. 

Mercy  for  us  of  the  few,  young  years. 

Of  the  culture  sr>  callow  and  crude, 

Of  the  hands  so  grasping  and  rude, 

The  lips  so  ready  for  sneers 

At   the   sons   of   our   ancient   more-than- 

peers. 
Mercy  for  us  who  dare  despise 
Men  in  whose  loins  our  Homer  lies; 
Mothers  of  men  who  shall  bring  to  us 
The    glory    of    Titian,    the    grandeur    of 

Huss;3  90 

Children  in  whose  frail  arms  shall  rest 
Prophets   and   singers  and   saints   of   the 

West. 


Newcomers  all  from  the  eastern  seas. 
Help  us  incarnate  dreams  like  these. 
Forget,    and    forgive,    that    we    did    you 

wrong. 
Help  us  to  father  a  nation,  strong 
In  the  comradeship  of  an  equal  birth, 
In   the   wealth   of   the    richest   bloods   of 

earth. 

(1911) 

1  poet-king.     David. 
3  See  Isaiah  40:11. 

3  An  Italian  painter,  and  a  Bohemian  leader  of 
the  Protestant  Reformation. 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND 

MARGARET  L.    WOODS 
[From  a  long  poem  called  "Marlboroticjh  Fair."'] 

Merry-go-round  is  a-turning,  turning ! 
What   will   you   mount   upon,   where   will 

you  ride? 
Merry-go-round  is  a-turning! 
Where  the  gilded  chariots  glide 
Merry-go-round  is  a-calling,  calling, 
Where  the  galloping  horses  arch  in  pride 
Their  elegant  necks  with  manes  a-flowing 
And  scarlet  nostrils  bravely  glowing. 
The  dapple  and  white,  the  black  and  the 

bay. 
The  organ  is  high  over  every  sound,       10 
You  can  hear  it  calling  a  mile  away. 
It  is   whirling  its  galloping  tune   around 
While    the    merry-go-round    is     turning, 

turning ! 

Whither  away  goes  the  Merry-go-round, 
Busily  whirling,   dizzily  whirling? 
Say,  on  its  narrow  circle  of  ground. 
Fast  or  slow  though  it  go,  it  abides. 
And  the  company  giddily,  giddily  glides. 
Dabs  of  color,  red  country  faces, 
A  crimson  feather,  a  grass-green  sash,  20 
The  white  of  a  dress  or  a  bonnet  flash, 
Appear,  disappear,  and  appear  again. 
Like  beads  on  a  rapid  revolving  chain 
That  is  tense  with  the   force  of  its  own 

motion. 
Busily  whirling,  dizzily  whirling. 

Yet  with  the  wheel  of  the  Merry-go-round 
On  manifold  roads  do  the  riders  travel. 
On  wonderful  ways,  in  marvellous  places. 
They  have  drunk  of  a  wind  like  a  wiz- 
ard's potion, 
And  the  spin  of  the  wheel  to  a  rush  and 
a  ravel  30 

Of  color  and  noise,  a  skein  unwound 
Rapidly,   something  meaningless,   blurred. 
Transforms    the    eddying    Fair's   commo- 
tion, 
While  the  Merry-go-round,  the  Merry-go- 
round 

Is  turning,  turning. 

Over  meadow  and  fallow  with  horn  and 

hound 
Goes  the  galloping  gray  of  the   farmer's 

boy, 


388 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


And  the  soldier's  son  with  a  valorous  joy 
On  the  enemy's  roaring  guns  has  spurred 
His  bay,  and  the  couple  at  ease  in  the 

yellow  40 

And  azure  car — the  peony  pride 
Of  the  sweetheart,  the  grin  of  the  rustic 

fellow ! — 
Are  riding  like  gentlefolks  in  a  carriage; 
The  church-bells  ring  in  a  downland  vil- 
lage, 
And  he   is   the  bridegroom   and  she  the 

bride. 
On  a  white  steed,  with  a  bridle  of  gold. 
The  child  in  the  broidery  frock  is  flying. 
Beneath  her  the  suns  of  the  world  have 

rolled 
And    she    sees    the    enchanted    countries 

lying, 
With  palm  and  minaret,  fairy  and  Djinn,^ 
Beautiful  ladies  and  palace  halls  51 

Where  the  gold-fish   swim,   and   no   foot 

falls 
And  a  king  half  marble  throned  therein. 


But  the  Merry-go-Tound  is  turning,  turn- 
ing 

Slower ;  until  as  a  chain  drops  slack 

When  the  speed  of  it  fails,  in  a  moment, 
back 

The  riders  suddenly  come,  descend 

Amazed  that  the  journey  should  have  an 
end 
And  they  be  standing  upon  the  ground. 

But  the   Merry-go-round,   the   Merry-go- 
round  60 

Above  them  still  will  be  turning,  turning. 


Like  the  wheel  of  Life  it  is  turning,  turn- 
ing; 

While  they  wondering  stand,  with  a  bur- 
den new. 

It  is  off  and  away  with  a  brave  young 
crew. 

Watch  how  forth  overhead  they  are  far- 
ing. 

Mounted  and  glorious,  proudly  staring, 

O'er  the  humbled  world  they  leave  be- 
hind. 

They  are  swinging  the  way-worn  circle 
round. 

Busily  whirling,  dizzily  whirling, 

They  are  swift  on  the  tide,  they  are  sail- 
ing the  wind,  70 

I   Djinn.     A   Mohammedan  spirit,  made  of  fire. 


To  shores  where  never  a  ship  was  bound. 
To  the  Fortunate  Isles  that  will  never  be 

found. 
On  the  track  of  the  stars  that  are  yet  to 
find, 
Busily  whirling,  dizzily  whirling 
On  the  Merry-go-round,  the  Merry-go- 
round  ! 

But  hardly  the  journey  appears  begun, 
And  the  riders  firm  in  the  saddle  seated, 
When  the  flying  circles  are  all  completed, 
The    riders    down,    and    the    journey    is 

done. 
Staring  they  stand,  while  away  with  its 

new 
Spirited,  arrogant,  splendid  crew,         ^  80 
The  Merry-go-round  is  turning,  turning. 

(1911) 

JESUS   THE   CARPENTER 

CHARLES    M.    SHELDON 

If  I  could  hold  within  my  hand 

The  hammer  Jesus  swung. 
Not  all  the  gold  in  all  the  land. 
Nor  jewels  countless  as  the  sand. 

All  in  the  balance  flung, 
Could  weigh  the  value  of  that  thing 
Round  which  his  fingers  once  did  cling. 

If  I  could  have  the  table  he 

Once  made  in  Nazareth, 
Not  all  the  pearls  in  all  the  sea,  10 

Nor  crowns  of  kings,  or  kings  to  be 

As  long  as  men  have  breath. 
Could  buy  that  thing  of  wood  he  made — 
The  Lord  of  Lords  who  learned  a  trade. 

Yes,  but  his  hammer  still  is  shown 

By  honest  hands  that  toil. 
And  round  his  table  men  sit  down, 
And  all  are  equals,  with  a  crown 

No  gold  nor  pearls  can  soil. 
The  shop  at  Nazareth  was  bare,  20 

But   Brotherhood  was  builded  there. 

(1911) 

THE  MOTHER 

KATHARINE  TYNAN 

There  is  no  height,  no  depth,  that  could 

set  us  apart — 
Body  of  mine  and  soul  of  mine,  heart  of 

my  heart. 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


389 


There  is  no  sea  so  deep,  no  mountain  so 

high, 
That  I  could  not  come  to  you  if  I  heard 

you  cry. 

There  is  no  hell  so  sunken,  no  heaven  so 

steep, 
Where    I    should   not   seek   you   and   find 

you  and  keep. 

Now  you  are  round  and  soft,  and  sweet 

as  a  rose; 
Not  a  stain  on  my  spotless  one,  white  as 

the  snows. 

If  some  day  you  came  to  me  heavy  with 

sin, 
I,   your   mother,   would   run   to   the   door 

and  let  you  in.  lo 

I  would  wash  you  white  again  with  my 

tears  and   my  grief. 
Body  of  mine  and  soul  of  mine,  till  you 

found  relief. 

Though  you  had  sinned  all  sins  there  are 

'twixt  east  and  west. 
You  should  find  my  arms  wide  for  you, 

your  head  on  my  breast. 

Child,  if  I  were  in  heaven  and  you  were 

in  hell, — 
Angels  white  as  my  spotless  one  stumbled 

and  fell, — 

I  would  leave  the  fields  of  God  and  Queen 

Mary's  feet, 
Straight   to   the   heart   of   hell   would    go 

seeking  my  sweet. 

God,  mayhap,  would  turn  Him  at  sound 

of  the  door; 
"Who  is  it  goes  out  from   Me,  to  come 

back  no  more?"  20 

Then   the  blessed  Mary  would  say   from 

her  throne : 
"Son,  'tis  a  mother  goes  to  hell,  seeking 

her  own. 

"Body  of  mine  and  Soul  of  mine,  born 

of  me, — 
Thou   who  wert   once   little  Jesus   beside 

my  knee, — 

"It  is   so  that   mothers   are   made :    Thou 

madest  them  so. 
Body  of  mine  and  Soul  of  mine,  do  I  not 

know?" 

(1911) 


THE  MAKING  OF   BIRDS 

KATHARINE  TYNAN 

God  made  Him  birds  in  a  pleasant  humor ; 

Tired  of  planets  and  suns  was  He. 
He  said,  "I  will  add  a  glory  to  summer, 

Gifts  for  my  creatures  banished   from 
Me!" 

He  had  a  thought  and  it  set  Him  smiling. 
Of  the  shape  of  a  bird  and  its  glancing 
head, 
Its  dainty  air  and  its  grace  beguiling : 
"I  will  make  feathers,"  the  Lord  God 
said. 

He  made  the  robin :  He  made  the  swal- 
low ; 
His  deft  hands  moulding  the  shape  to 
His  mood,  10 

The  thrush  and  lark  and  the  finch  to  fol- 
low, 
And  laughed  to  see  that  His  work  was 
good. 

He  who  has  given  men  gift  of  laughter. 
Made  in  His  image;  He  fashioned  fit 

The  blink  of  the  owl  and  the  stork  there- 
after, 
The  little  wren  and  the  long-tailed  tit. 

He    spent    in    the    making    His    wit    and 
fancies ; 
The  wing-feathers   He   fashioned  them 
strong; 
Deft  and  dear  as  daisies  and  pansies. 
He  crowned  His  work  with  the  gift  of 
song.  20 

"Dearlings,"  He  said,  "make  songs  for  my 
praises !" 
He  tossed  them   loose  to  the   sun  and 
wind, 
Airily  sweet  as  pansies  and  daisies; 
He  taught  them  to  build  a  nest  to  their 
mind. 

The  dear  Lord  God  of  His  glories  weary — 
Christ    our    Lord    had    the    heart   of   a 
boy — 

Made  Him  birds  in  a  moment  merry. 
Bade  them  soar  and  sing  for  His  joy. 

(1912) 


390 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


THE   POOR-HOUSE* 

SARA  TEASDALE 

Hope  went  by  and  Peace  went  by 

And  would  not  enter  in ; 
Youth  went  by  and  Health  went  by, 

And  Love  that  is  their  kin. 

Those  within  the  house  shed  tears 

On  their  bitter  bread; 
Some  were  old  and  some  were  mad, 

And  some  were  sick  abed. 

Gray  Death  saw  the  wretched  house. 
And  even  he  passed  by —  lo 

"They  have  never  lived,"  he  said, 
"They  can  wait  to  die." 

(1912) 

THE  HERITAGE  t 
ABBIE    FARWELL    BROWN 

No  matter  what  my  birth  may  be. 
No  matter  where  my  lot  is  cast, 

I  am  the  heir  in  equity 
Of  all  the  precious  Past. 

The  art,  the  science,  and  the  lore 
Of  all  the  ages  long  since  dust, 

The  wisdom  of  the  world  in  store. 
Are  mine,  all  mine  in  trust. 

The  beauty  of  the  living  earth, 
The  power  of  the  golden  sun,  10 

The  Present,  whatsoe'er  my  birth, 
I  share  with  every  one. 

As  much  as  any  man  am  I 
The  owner  of  the  working  day; 

Mine  are  the  minutes  as  they  fly 
To  save  or  throw  away. 

And  mine  the  Future  to  bequeath 

Unto  the  generations  new; 
I  help  to  shape  it  with  my  breath, 

Mine  as  I  think  or  do.  20 

Present  and  Past  my  heritage, 
The  Future  laid  in  my  control ; — 

No  matter  what  my  name  or  age, 
I  am  a  Master-soul  I 

(1912) 

*  Reprinted  by  special  permission  from  the 
author   and   The    Macmillan    Company. 

t  Reprinted  from  "Songs  of  Sixpence,"  by  spe- 
cial   permission    from    the    author. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  SPRINGFIELD* 

NICHOLAS    VACHEL    LINDSAY 

[The  poet  here  treats  of  the  possibilities  of 
American  prairie-towns  of  the  Middle  West, 
speaking  especially  for  his  own  city  of  Spring- 
field, Illinois.] 

Let  not  our  town  be  large — remembering 

That  little  Athens  was  the  Muses'  home. 

That  Oxford  rules  the  heart  of  London 

still, 

That  Florence  gave  the  Renaissance  to 

Rome. 

Record  it  for  the  grandson  of  your  son — 
A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day : 

Our  little  town  cannot  complete  her  soul 
Till  countless  generations  pass  away. 

Now   let    each   child   be   joined    as    to   a 
church 
To  her  perpetual  hopes,  each  man  or- 
dained; ID 
Let  every  street  be  made  a  reverent  aisle 
Where  music  grows,  and  beauty  is  un- 
chained. 

Let  Science  and  Machinery  and  Trade 
Be  slaves  of  her,  and  make  her  all  in 
all- 
Building  against  our  blatant  restless  time 
An  unseen,  skilful,  mediaeval  wall. 

Let  every  citizen  be  rich  toward  God. 

Let  Christ,  the  beggar,  teach  divinity, — 
Let  no  man  rule  who  holds  his  money 
dear. 

Let  this,  our  city,  be  our  luxury.        20 

We  should  build  parks  that  students  from 
afar 
Would  choose  to  starve  in,  rather  than 
go  home — 
Fair  little   squares,   with   Phidian^   orna- 
ment— 
Food   for   the   spirit,   milk   and  honey- 
comb. 

Songs  shall  be  sung  by  us  in  that  good 
day — 
Songs    we   have   written — blood   within 
the  rhyme 
Beating,   as   when   old   England   still   was 
glad. 
The  purple,  rich,  Elizabethan  time. 

I  Phidian.  Worthy  of  Phidias,  the  great  Greek 
sculptor. 

'Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  The  Mac- 
millan Company. 


LYRICAL  AND   REFLECTIVE   POEMS 


391 


Say,  is  my  prophecy  too  fair  and  far? 

I  only  know,  unless  her  faith  be  high, 
The  soul  of  this  our  Nineveh  is  doomed, 

Our  little  Babylon  will  surely  die.        32 

Some  city  on  the  breast  of  Illinois 
No  wiser  and  no  better  at  the  start. 

By   faith    shall    rise    redeemed, — by   faith 
shall  rise 
Bearing  the  western  glory  in  her  heart. 

The  genius  of  the  Maple,  Elm,  and  Oak, 
The    secret    hidden    in    each    grain   of 
corn — 
The  glory  that  the  prairie  angels  sing 
At  night  when  sons  of  Life  and  Love 
are  born —  40 

Born  but  to  struggle,  squalid  and  alone. 
Broken   and   wandering   in    their   early 
years ; 
When   will   they   make   our  dusty   streets 
their  goal. 
Within    our    attics    hide    their    sacred 
tears  ? 

When  will  they  start  our  vulgar  blood 
athrill 
With   living  language — words   that   set 
us  free? 
When  will  they  make  a  path  of   beauty 
clear 
Between  our  riches  and  our  liberty? 

We    must    have    many    Lincoln-hearted 

men — 

A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day —  50 

And  they  must  do  their  work,  and  come 

and  go 

While  countless  generations  pass  away. 

(1913) 

PANAMA  HYMN* 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS   STAFFORD 

[On    the   opening   of   the   Panama   Canal.] 

We  join  to-day  the  East  and  West, 
The   stormy   and   the   tranquil   seas. 

O  Father,  be  the  bridal  blest! 
The  earth  is  on  her  knees. 

Thou,    Thou    didst    give    our    hand    the 
might 

To  hew  the  hemisphere  in  twain 
And  level  for  these  waters  bright 

The  mountain  with  the  main. 

*  Reprinted    by    special    nermission    from    the 
autlior  and   The  Atlantic  Monthly, 


In  freedom  let  the  great  ships  go 
On  freedom's  errand,  sea  to  sea, —      10 

The  oceans  rise,  the  hills  bend  low, 
Servants  of  liberty. 

The  nations  here  shall  flash  through  foam 
And  paint  their  pennons  with  the  sun, 

Till  every  harbor  is  a  home 
And  all  the  flags  are  one. 

We  join  to-day  the  East  and  West, 
The  stormy  and  the  tranquil  seas. 

O  Father,  be  the  bridal  blest ! 
Earth  waits  it  on  her  knees.  20 

(1913) 

GOETHALS  f 

PERCY  MACKAYE 
[On  the  directing  builder  of  the  Panama  Canal.] 

A  man  went  down  to  Panama 
Where  many  a  man  had  died 

To  slit  the  sliding  mountains 
And  lift  the  eternal  tide: 

A  man  stood  up  in  Panama, 
And  the  mountains  stood  aside. 

The  Power  that  wrought  the  tide  and  peak 

Wrought  mightier  the  seer; 
And  the  One  who  made  the  isthmus 

He  made  the  engineer,  10 

And  the  good  God  he  made  Goethals 

To  cleave  the  hemisphere. 

The  reek  of  fevered  ages  rose 
From  poisoned  jungle  and  strand, 

Where  the  crumbling  wrecks  of  failure 
Lay  sunk  in  the  torrid  sand — 

Derelicts  of  old  desperate  hopes 
And  venal  contraband : 

Till   a   mind   glowed   white   through    the 
yellow  mist 

And  purged  the  poison-mould,  20 

And  the  wrecks  rose  up  in  labor. 

And  the  fevers'  knell  was  tolled, 
And  the  keen  mind  cut  the  world-divide, 

Untarnished  by  world  gold : 

For  a  poet  wrought  in  Panama, 
With  a  continent  for  his  theme. 

And  he  wrote  with  flood  and  fire 
To  forge  a  planet's  dream, 

And  the  derricks  rang  his  dithyrambs 
And  his  stanzas  roared  in  steam.        30 

t  Reprinted  from  "Collected  Poems"  by  special 
permission  from  the  author  and  The  Macmillan 
Company. 


592 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


But  the  poet's  mind  it  is  not  his 

Alone,  but  a  million  men's : 
Far   visions   of   lonely   dreamers 

Meet  there,  as  in  a  lens. 
And  lightnings,  pent  by  stormy  time, 

Leap  through,  with  flame  intense. 

So  from  our  age  three  giants  loom 
To  vouch  man's  venturous  soul : 

Amundsen  on  his  ice-peak, 

And  Peary  from  his  pole,  40 

And  midway,  where  the  oceans  meet, 
Goethals — beside  his  goal : 

Where  old  Balboa  bent  his  gaze 

He  leads  the  liners  through, 
And  the  Horn  that  tossed  Magellan 

Bellows  a  far  halloo. 
For  where  the  navies  never  sailed 

Steamed  Goethals  and  his  crew. 

So  nevermore  the  tropic  routes 

Need  poleward  warp  and  veer,  50 

But  on  through  the  Gates  of  Goethals 

The  steady  keels  shall  steer, 
Where  the  tribes  of  man  are  led  toward 
peace 

By  the  prophet-engineer. 

(1914) 


INVOCATION  ♦ 

WENDELL    PHILLIPS    STAFFORD 

O  Thou  whose  equal  purpose  runs 
In  drops  of  rain  or  streams  of  suns. 
And  with  a  soft  compulsion  rolls 
The  green  earth  on  her  snowy  poles; 
O  Thou  who  keepest  in  Thy  ken 
The  times  of  flowers,  the  dooms  of  men, 
Stretch  out  a  mighty  wing  above — 
Be  tender  to  the  land  we  love ! 

If  all  the  huddlers  from  the  storm 
Have    found    her    hearthstone    wide    and 
warm;  10 

If  she  has  made  men  free  and  glad, 
Sharing,  with  all,  the  good  she  had; 
If  she  has  blown  the  very  dust 
From  her  bright  balance  to  be  just, 
Oh,  spread  a  mighty  wing  above — 
Be  tender  to  the  land  we  love ! 

*  Reprinted    by    special    permission    from    the 
author  and  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


When  in  the  dark  eternal  tower 
The    star-clock    strikes    her    trial   hour, 
And  for  her  help  no  more  avail  19 

Her  sea-blue   shield,   her   mountain   mail, 
But  sweeping  wide,  from  Gulf  to  Lakes, 
The  battle  on  her  forehead  breaks. 
Throw  Thou  a  thunderous  wing  above — 
Be  lightning  for  the  land  we  love ! 

(1914) 


THE  GAOLER 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE 

To  be  free,  to  be  alone. 
Is  a  joy  I  have  not  known. 

To  a  keeper  who  never  sleeps 
I  was  given  at  the  hour  of  birth 
By  the  governors  of  earth; 
And  so  well  his  watch  he  keeps. 
Though  I  leave  no  sleight  untried, 
That  he  will  not  quit  my  side. 

How  often,  in  bygone  years, 
I  have  passioned,  and  sworn  with  tears  10 
That  I  loathed  him  and  all  his  ways ! 
He  is  silent;  he  smiles;  he  stays. 

When  I  close  my  eyes  at  night. 
His  face  is  my  latest  sight. 
That  dark   face  is  mine  own ! 
He  walks  in  my  dreams  at  will; 
When  I  wake,  he  is  with  me  still. 
To  be  free,  to  be  alone. 
Is  a  joy  that  I  have  not  known. 

I  have  cried  to  the  winds,  the  sea,  20 

"Oh,  help  me,  for  ye  are  free !" 
I  have  thought  to  escape  away, 
But  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  lay. 
From  the  hills  and  the  lifting  stars 
He  has  borne  me  back  to  bars ; 
With  the  spell  of  my  murmured  name 
He  has  captived  and  kept  me  tame. 


It  is  whispered  that  he  and  I 
In  a  single  hour  shall  die, 
As  we  were  born,  'tis  said. 
I  shall  lie  in   selfless  peace; 
For  him,  too,  is  surcease, 
Rest,  and  a  quiet  bed. 
Self  bindeth  not  the  dead. 


30 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


393 


Somewhat  otherwise  I  believe; 

For  a  hope  is  astir  in  me 

That  when  consciousness  one  day  fills 

With  a  splendor  I  scarce  conceive, — 

More  than  the  winds  and  sea, 

More  than  the  stars  and  hills, —  40 

I  indeed  shall  escape  away 

Forever  in  that  great  day; 

I  shall  have  no  heed  to  give 

Unto  aught  that  would   call   me  back: 

He  shall  pass  like  the  sunrise  rack, 

He  shall  vanish;   but  I   shall  live! 

(1914) 

TREES  * 
JOYCE    KILMER 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  pressed 
Against  the  sweet  earth's  flowing  breast ; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  Summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair ; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain ; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain.  10 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 

(1914) 

THE  LOOKt 

SARA  TEASDALE 

Strephon  kissed  me  in  the  spring, 

Robin  in  the  fall, 
But  CoHn  only  looked  at  me 

And  never  kissed  at  all. 

Strephon's  kiss  was  lost  in  jest, 

Robin's  lost  in  play, 
But  the  kiss  in  Colin's  eyes 

Haunts  me  night  and  day. 

(1914) 

*  Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  George 
H.   Doran  Company. 

t  Reprinted  by  special  permission  from  the 
author  and  The   Macmillan   Company. 


MILK    FOR   THE   CAT 
HAROLD   MONRO 

When  the  tea  is  brought  at  five  o'clock, 
And  all  the  neat  curtains  are  drawn  with 

care. 
The    little    black    cat    with    bright    green 

eyes 
Is  suddenly  purring  there. 
At  first  she  pretends,   having  nothing  to 

do. 
She  has  come  in  merely  to  blink  by  the 

grate, 
But,  though  tea  may  be  late  or  the  milk 

may  be  sour, 
She  is  never  late. 


And  presently  her  agate  eyes 
Take  a  soft  large  milky  haze, 
And  her  independent  casual  glance 
Becomes  a  stiff,  hard  gaze. 


10 


Then  she  stamps  her  claws  or  lifts  her 

ears, 
Or  twists  her  tail  and  begins  to  stir, 
Till  suddenly  all  her  lithe  body  becomes 
One  breathing,  trembling  purr. 

The  children  eat  and  wriggle  and  laugh ; 
The  two  old  ladies  stroke  their  silk : 
But  the  cat  is  grown  small  and  thin  with 

desire, 
Transformed  to  a  creeping  lust  for  milk. 

The  white  saucer  like  some  full  moon 
descends  21 

At  last  from  the  clouds  of  the  table 
above ; 

She  sighs  and  dreams  and  thrills  and  glows, 

Transfigured  with  love. 

She  nestles  over  the  shining  rim, 
Buries  her  chin  in  the  creamy  sea; 
Her  tail  hangs  loose;  each  drowsy  paw 
Is  doubled  under  each  bending  knee. 

A  long,  dim  ecstasy  holds  her  life; 
Her  world  is  an  infinite  shapeless  white, 
Till  her  tongue  has  curled  the  last  holy 
drop;  31 

Then   she   sinks   back   into   the   night, 

Draws  and  dips  her  body  to  heap 

Her  sleepy  nerves  in  the  great  arm-chair, 

Lies  defeated  and  buried  deep 

Three  or  four  hours  unconscious  there. 

(1914) 


394 


POEMS   OF   THE   ENGLISH    RACE 


THE    LITTLE    BOY    AND    THE 
LOCOMOTIVE  * 

BENJAMIN    R.    C.    LOW 

The  Little  Boy  to  the  Locomotive 

Big  iron  horse  with  lifted  head. 
Panting  beneath  the  station  shed. 
You  are  my  dearest  dream  come  true; — 
I  love  my  Dad ;  I  worship  you ! 
Your  noble  heart  is  filled  with  fire; 
For  all  your  toil,  you  never  tire; 
And  though  you're  saddled-up  in  steel, 
Somewhere,  inside,  I  know  you  feel. 

All  night  in  dreams  when  you  pass  by, 
You  breathe  out  stars  that  fill  the  sky,  lo 
And  now,  when  all  my  dreams  are  true, 
I  hardly  dare  come  close  to  you. 

The  Locomotive  to  the  Little  Boy 

Boy,  whose  little  confiding  hand 
Your  father  holds,  why  do  you  stand 
Staring  in  wonderment  at  me, — 
Poor  thing  of  iron  that  I  be? 

Your  unsophisticated  eyes 

Are  full  of  beautiful  surprise; 

And  oh,  how  wonderful  you  are. 

You  little,  golden  morning-star!  20 

Poor  thing  of  iron  that  I  be, 

A  mortal  man  imagined  me; 

But  you — you  drop  of  morning  dew — 

God  and  his  heaven  are  globed  in  you. 

(1915) 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CHRISTMAS 
GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON 

There  fared  a  mother  driven  forth 

Out  of  an  inn  to  roam; 

In  the  place  where  she  was  homeless 

All  men  are  at  home. 

The  crazy  stable  close  at  hand, 

With  shaking  timber  and  shifting  sand, 

Grew  a  stronger  thing  to  abide  and  stand 

Than  the  square  stones  of  Rome. 

•  Reprinted  from  "The  House  That  Was"  by 
special  permission  from  the  author  and  John 
Lane. 


For  men  are  homesick  in  their  homes. 
And  strangers  under  the  sun,  10 

And   they   lay   their   heads   in   a   foreign 

land 
Whenever  the  day  is  done. 
Here  we  have  battle  and  blazing  eyes. 
And  chance  and  honor  and  high  surprise, 
But  our  homes  are  under  miraculous  skies 
Where  the  yule  tale  was  begun. 

A  Child  in  a  foul  stable. 

Where  the  beasts   feed  and  foam; 

Only  where  He  was  homeless 

Are  you  and  I  at  home;  20 

We  have  hands   that   fashion  and  heads 

that  know, 
But  our  hearts  we  lost — how  long  ago! 
In  a  place  no  chart  nor  ship  can  show 
Under  the  sky's  dome. 

This  world  is  wild  as  an  old  wives'  tale. 

And  strange  the  plain  things  are; 

The  earth  is  enough  and  the  air  is  enough 

For  our  wonder  and  our  war; 

But  our  rest  is  as   far  as  the  fire-drake 

swings. 
And  our  peace  is  put  in  impossible  things 
Where  clashed  and  thundered  unthinkable 

wings  31 

Round  an  incredible  star. 

To  an  open  house  in  the  evening 

Home  shall  men  come, 

To  an  older  place  than  Eden 

And  a  taller  town  than  Rome. 

To  the  end  of  the  way  of  the  wandering 

star, 
To  the  things  that  cannot  be  and  that  are. 
To  the  place  where  God  was  homeless 
And  all  men  are  at  home.  40 

(1915) 

THE  ENGLISH   TONGUE 
LEWIS    WORTHINGTON    SMITH 

Words  that  have  tumbled  and  tossed  from 

the  Avon  and  Clyde 
On    to    where    Indus    and    Ganges    pour 

down  to  the  tide. 
Words    that   have   lived,    that   have    felt, 

that  have  gathered  and  grown. 
Words !      Is    it    nothing    that    no    other 

people  have  known 
Speech  of  such  myriad  voices,  so  full  and 

so  free, 
Song   by   the   fireside   and   crash   of   the 

thunders  at  sea? 


LYRICAL   AND    REFLECTIVE    POEMS 


395 


Weight  of  the  Teuton  upborne  by  the  joy 
of  the  Celt, 

Grace  from  the  halls  where  the  courtiers 
of  Normandy  knelt, 

Easy  precision  that  plays  through  the 
laughter  of  France, 

Mysteries     of      dim     Irish      fairylands 
thronged  in  the  dance; —  lo 

All  of  the  moods  of  the  world  have  been 
caught  and  been  sung. 

Changed  to  its  substance,  the  final  in- 
vincible tongue. 

Words!     They  are  symbols,  perhaps,  but 

the  things  that  we  live 
Keep  in  their  closure;   the  joys   we  can 

take  and  can  give 
Narrow    themselves    to   our    speech,    and 

the  life  of  the  race 
Holds  to  the  scope  of  the  lexicon.     Idle 

is  place, 
Power,   and   the   marching  of  armies,   if 

those  they  enthrall 
Thrill  to  no  word-glow  together,  no  cry 

and  no  call. 

Words !  They  are  sympathies,  flotsam 
caught  up  from  the  waves. 

Passions  and  tempests  of  living  that  only 
love  saves.  20 

Words !  They  are  insights  and  trem- 
blings of  earth  made  divine, 

Swift  revelations  that  melt  all  of  mine 
into  thine. 

Words !  They  are  human  outreachings 
to  know  and  believe, 

Throbbings  of  man  to  his  fellows,  to  give 
and  receive. 

Speech  is  the  conqueror  sureliest  hold- 
ing his  reign. 

English  they  talk  in  Manila,  forgetful 
of  Spain, 

English  in  India,  Africa,  Van  Diemen's 
Land, 

English  along  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  Nile, 
Rio  Grande. 

Out  of  its  fullness  come  friendliness, 
peace,  and  content. 

Loves  of  the  hearth  and  the  council  when 
hatreds  are  spent.  30 

Words  !  English  words  !  They  are  cir- 
cling the  earth  with  their  power. 

Kinships  spring  up  where  they  march ; 
law  is  born  as  their  dower ; 


Guns  shall  be  silent  before  them  and  war- 
lords give  way. 

Yielding  to  man  in  his  manhood  their 
blood-purchased  sway. 

Petty,  provincial,  and  barbarous  aims 
shall  be  flung 

Far  to  the  deeps  in  the  track  of  the  con- 
quering tongue. 

(191S) 

NOD 
WALTER   DE    LA   MARE 

Softly  along  the  road  of  evening, 

In  a  twilight  dim  with  rose. 
Wrinkled    with    age,    and    drenched   with 
dew, 

Old  Nod  the  shepherd  goes. 

His  drowsy  flock  streams  on  before  him. 
Their  fleeces  charged  with  gold, 

To  where  the  sun's  last  beam  leans  low 
On  Nod  the  shepherd's  fold. 

The  hedge  is  quick  and  green  with  briar. 
From  their  sand  the  conies  creep;     10 

And  all  the  birds  that  fly  in  heaven 
Flock  singing  home  to  sleep. 

His  lambs  outnumber  a  noon's  roses, 
Yet,   when  night's   shadows    fall, 

His  blind  old  sheep-dog,   Slumber-soon, 
Misses  not  one  of  all. 

His   are   the   quiet   steeps   of  dreamland. 

The  waters  of  no-more-pain. 
His    ram's   bell   rings   'neath   an   arch   of 
stars, 

"Rest,  rest,  and  rest  again."  20 

(1916) 


THE   SACRAMENT   OF   FIRE* 

JOHN   OXENHAM 

Kneel  always  when  you  light  a  fire! 
Kneel  reverently,  and  thankful  be 
For  God's  unfailing  charity ; 
And  on  the  ascending  flame  inspire 
A  little  prayer,  that  shall  upbear 

*  From  a  volume  entitled  "The  Fiery  Cross," 
1918.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Geo.  H. 
Doran   Company,   publishers. 


396 


POEMS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  RACE 


The  incense  of  your  thankfulness 

For  this  sweet  grace 

Of  warmth  and  light; 

For  here  again  is  sacrifice 

For  your  delight.  lo 

Within  the  wood, 

That  lived  a  joyous  life 

Through  sunny  days  and  rainy  days 

And  winter  storms  and  strife; — 

Within  the  peat 

That  drank  the  sweet, 

The  moorland  sweet 

Of  bracken,  whin,  and  sweet  bell-heather. 

And  knew  the  joy  of  gold  gorse  feather 

Flaming  like  love  in  wintriest  weather,  20 

While  snug  below,  in  sun  and  snow. 

It  heard  the  beat  of  the  padding  feet 

li  foal  and  dam,  and  ewe  and  lamb, 

And  the  stamp  of  old  bell-wether; — 

Within  the  coal. 

Where  forests  lie  entombed, 

Oak,   elm,   and   chestnut,   beech,   and  red 

pme  bole ; — 
God  shrined  His  sunshine,  and  enwombed 
For  you  these  stores  of  light  and  heat. 
Your  life-joys  to  complete.  30 

These  all  have  died  that  you  might  live; 
Yours  now  the  high  prerogative 
To  loose  their  long  captivities. 
And  through  these  new  activities 
A  wider  life  to  give. 

Kneel  always  when  you  light  a  fire ! 

Kneel  reverently. 

And  grateful  be 

For  God's  unfailing  charity! 

(1918) 

THE   DAWN   OF   PEACE 

ALFRED    NOYES 

[This  poem,  written  before  the  Great  War  of 
1914-1918,  seemed  during  the  years  of  that 
struggle  to  represent  a  forgotten  hope;  yet  the 
editor  had  intended  to  print  it  at  the  close  of 
this  volume,  even  if  the  volume  had  appeared 
while  the  war  still  went  on,  as  a  prophecy  of 
the  day  toward  which  humanity  continues  to 
strive.] 

Yes — "on  our  brows  we  feel  the  breath 

Of  dawn,"  though  in  the  night  we  wait! 
An  arrow  is  in  the  heart  of  Death, 

A  God  is  at  the  doors  of  Fate ! 
The  spirit  that  moved  upon  the  Deep 

Is  moving  through  the  minds  of  men : 
The  nations  feel  it  in  their  sleep, 

A    change    has    touched    their    dreams 
again. 


Voices,  confused  and   faint,  arise. 

Troubling  their  hearts   from   East  and 
West.  10 

A  doubtful  light  is  in  their  skies, 

A  gleam  that  will  not  let  them  rest : 
The  dawn,  the  dawn  is  on  the  wing. 

The  stir  of  change  on  every  side, 
Unsignaled  as  th&  approach  of  Spring, 

Invincible  as  the  hawthorn-tide. 


Have  ye  not  heard  it,  far  and  nigh, 

The  voice  of  France  across  the  dark, 
And  all  the  Atlantic  with  one  cry 

Beating  the  shores  of  Europe? — hark! 
Then — if  ye  will — uplift  your  word       21 

Of  cynic  wisdom !     Once  again 
Tell  us  He  came  to  bring  a  sword, — 

Tell  us  He  lived  and  died  in  vain. 


Say  that  we  dream  I     Our  dreams  have 
woven 
Truths  that  out-face  the  burning  sun : 
The    lightnings,    that    we    dreamed,    have 
cloven 
Time,    space,    and   linked   all   lands    in 
one! 
Dreams!     But  their  swift  celestial  fingers 
Have  knit  the   world   with   threads   of 
steel,  30 

Till  no  remotest  island  lingers 
Beyond  the  world's  one  Commonweal. 


Dreams   are   they?      But   ye   cannot   stay 
them. 
Or  thrust  the  dawn  back  for  one  hour ! 
Truth,  Love,  and  Justice,  if  ye  slay  them, 
Return  with  more  than  earthly  power : 
Strive,  if  ye  will,  to  seal  the  fountains 
That    send    the    Spring   thro'    leaf    and 
spray : 
Drive    back    the    sun    from    the    eastern 
mountains,  39 

Then — bid  this  mightier  movement  stay. 


It  is  the  Dawn  of  Peace !     The  nations 

From  East  to  West  have  heard  a  cry, — 
"Though  all  earth's  blood-red  generations 

By    hate    and    slaughter    climbed    thus 
high, 
Here — on  this  height — still  to  aspire, 

One  only  path  remains  untrod. 
One  path  of  love  and  peace  climbs  higher! 

Make    straight    that    highway    for    our 
God." 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  POEMS 

American  poets   are   distinguished   by   the   asterisk 


Addison,  Thomas  ^*gb 

The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High..  247 

*Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 

Unguarded    Gates 366 

Guilielmus  Rex  374 

Allingham,  William 

The  Fairies   306 

Arnold,  Matthew 

The  Forsaken  Merman 104 

Sohrab   and   Rustum    106 

Shakespeare    306 

Self-Dependence    313 

Rugby  Chapel   342 

East   London    344 

*Bacon,  Leonard 

Forefathers'   Hymn    285 

Barham,  Richard  Harris 

The  Jackdaw  of  Rheims   76 

Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell 

Song  307 

Benson,  Arthur  Christopher 

After   Construing   372 

Blake,  William 

The  Tiger   260 

*BoKER,  George  Henry 

Dirge   for   a   Soldier    329 

Bridges,  Robert 

London  Snow 356 

O  Youth  whose  Hope  is  High 356 

School-Days     368 

*Brown,  Abbie  Farwell 

The   Heritage    390 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 

Rime  of  the   Duchess  May 90 

The   Cry  of  the   Children 298 

Browning,  Robert 

My  Last  Duchess 86 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  News.  .  96 

The   Boy  and   the   Angel 97 

Incident  of  the   French   Camp 98 

The  Italian  in  England 98 

Instans  Tyrannus  120 

Herve    Riel     189 

Pheidippides   194 

The  Year's  at  the  Spring 288 


PAGE 

Marching  Along    289 

Home-Thoughts  from  Abroad 305 

Home-Thoughts  from  the   Sea 305 

Evelyn  Hope   315 

The  Patriot   316 

De    Gustibus    316 

Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the  City.  ...   317 

Love    among  the   Ruins 318 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 332 

Prospice    335 

Epilogue    362 

*Bryant,  William   Cullen 

Thanatopsis    272 

To  a  Water-Fowl  273 

A  Forest  Hymn    282 

Robert  of  Lincoln  323 

Buchanan,  Robert 

The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot 201 

*Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler 

The  Way  to  Arcady 358 

Burns,  Robert 

Tam  O'Shanter  31 

To  a  Louse 258 

To  a  Mouse    259 

Scots  Wha   Hae 260 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That 260 

Highland  Mary   262 

Byron,  Lord 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib.  ...      53 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 53 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 270 

Campbell,  Thomas 

The  Battle  of  the  Baltic 52 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 269 

*Carman,  Bliss 

The   Marching  Morrows 369 

A  More  Ancient  Mariner 369 

*Carruth,  William  Herbert 

Each  in  his  Own  Tongue 373 

♦Carryl,  Guy  Wetmore 

When  the   Great   Gray  Ships   Come 
In    377 

*Cawein,  Madison 

The  Redbird    367 

Prelude    378 

397 


398 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND   POEMS 


Chaucer,  Geoffrey  page 

The  Pardoner's  Tale i 

Chesterton,  Gilbert  K. 

The  House  of  Christmas 394 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 
Say  Not  the  Struggle  Nought  Avail- 

eth   329 

♦Coates,  Florence  Earle 

The   Unconquered   Air 385 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner..  33 

Christabel   57 

Kubla  Khan    270 

Collins,  William 

Ode    (How  sleep  the  brave) 248 

Ode  to  Evening 248 

*Cone,  Helen  Gray 

The   Gaoler   392 

CowpER,  William 

Boadicea    30 

The  Jackdaw 258 

Crashaw,  Richard 

The   Holy   Nativity 240 

Dekker,  Thomas 

0  Sweet  Content 227 

DE  la  Mare,  Walter 

The  Listeners   215 

Nod    395 

♦Dickinson,  Emily 

If    363 

A  Day  363 

1  Never  Saw  a  Moor 363 

The  Railway  Train 363 

The  Robin    364 

Who   Robbed   the    Woods? 364 

Two  Voyagers   364 

DoBELL,  Sidney 

America     319 

DoBsoN,  Austin 

When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose 351 

The    Milkmaid    359 

When  Burbage  Played 363 

Donne,  John 

Death     236 

♦Drake,  Joseph  Rodman 

The  American   Flag 274 

Drayton,  Michael 

Agincourt    11 

Nymphidia:  the  Court  of  Faery iz 

Sonnet   (Since  there's  no  help) 231 

The    Crier    231 

Dryden,  John 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687....  244 

Alexander's   Feast    245 


♦Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo  »age 

Concord  Hymn    286 

The   Humble-Bee    286 

The   Rhodora    287 

The   Snow-Storm    287 

Days 32s 

Boston   Hymn    331 

♦Firkins,  O.  W. 
To  a  Greek  Bootblack 382 

Gay,  John 
The  Painter  who  Pleased  Nobody. . .     29 
The   Peacock,   the   Turkey,   and   the 
Goose  29 

♦Gladden,  Washington 

Ultima   Veritas   353 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 
The  Deserted  Village 251 

GossE,  Edmund 
Ballade  of  Dead  Cities 353 

Gray,  Thomas 
Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard     249 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen 
The  Silent  Tower  of  Bottreau 73 

Heber,  Reginald 
The  Son  of  God  Goes  Forth  to  War.  284 

Hemans,  Felicia  Dorothea 
The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  284 

Henley,  William  Ernest 

A  Late  Lark  Twitters 349 

Ballade  of  June 359 

Fresh  from  his  Fastnesses 366 

Herbert,  George 

Virtue  23 1 

Love  231 

The  Pulley  232 

Herrick,  Robert 

Corinna's  Going  a-Maying 241 

A    Thanksgiving    to    God    for    his 

House 242 

On  Julia's  Clothes 242 

To  Daffodils   242 

A  Christmas  Carol 243 

♦Holmes,   Oliver  Wendell 

Old   Ironsides    285 

The  Last  Leaf 285 

The   Chambered   Nautilus 325 

The   Living   Temple 326 

A  Sun-Day  Hymn 326 

Dorothy    Q 346 

Hood,  Thomas 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 297 

HOUSMAN,  A.   E. 

To  an  Athlete  Dying  Young 373 

Lad,  Have  You  Things  to  Do?....   374 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  POEMS 


399 


•HovEY,  Richard  page 

Comrades    368 

At  the  End  of  the  Day 374 

Unmanifest  Destiny 377 

•Howe,  Julia  Ward 

Our    Country 328 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic 328 

Hunt,  Leigh 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 89 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket  272 
Rondeau    300 

Ingelow,  Jean 

Songs  of  Seven 330 

♦Jackson,  Helen  Hunt 

My    Strawberry 347 

♦Jones,  Thomas  S. 
Sometimes    382 

JoNsoN,  Ben 

It  is  not  Growing  Like  a  Tree 230 

To  Celia 230 

♦Jordan,  David  Starr 
Altruism    376 

Keats,  John 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 61 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 62 

On    First    Looking    into    Chapman's 

Homer   271 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket...  271 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 275 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 276 

To    Autumn 277 

♦KlLMERyiip)YCE 
Trees   393 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles 

Ode  to  the  North-East  Wind 313 

A   Farewell 325 

Young   and  Old 330 

Kipling,  Rudyard 

A  Ballad  of  East  and  West 207 

The  Last  Chantey 211 

The  English  Flag 364 

Recessional    376 

Lamb,  Charles 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 261 

Landor,  Walter  Savage 

Iphigeneia    and    Agamemnon 103 

Lanier,  Sidney 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn 354 

A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master..   357 

♦Lathbury,  Mary  A. 

A   Song  of  To-day 357 

Lee-Hamilton,  Eugene 

Elfin    Skates 210 

The  Death  of  Puck 210 

Mimma  Bella 383 


♦Lindsay,  Nicholas  Vachel  pagb 

The   Building  of    Springfield 390 

Locker-Lampson,  Frederick 
The   Reason   Why 349 

♦Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 78 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 104 

King  Robert   of   Sicily 125 

A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet 193 

A  Psalm  of  Life 286 

Maidenhood   288 

The   Arsenal    at    Springfield 303 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 304 

My  Lost  Youth 322 

Nature    349 

Lovelace,  Richard 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars. .   243 
To  Althea  from  Prison 243 

♦Low,  Benjamin  R.  C. 
The  Little  Boy  and  the  Locomotive. .   394 

♦Lowell,  James  Russell 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus.  ...     87 

Rhoecus   87 

The   Courtin' 128 

The   Present   Crisis 301 

To   the   Dandelion 303 

Ode   Recited   at   the    Harvard   Com- 
memoration       336 

Aladdin  345 

Lytton,  Lord    (see  Owen   Meredith) 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington 

The  Last  Buccaneer 76 

Horatius    80 

♦Mackaye,  Percy 

Goethals    391 

♦Markham,  Edwin 

The  Joy  of  the  Hills 371 

Two  Taverns 378 

Masefield,  John 

The  Dauber  Rounds  Cape  Horn....   216 
Sea-Fever   381 

Meredith,  Owen 
King  Solomon 124 

Milton,  John 

L'Allegro    232 

I\  Penseroso 234 

Lycidas   236 

On  his  being  Arrived  at  the  Age  of 

Twenty-three    240 

On  his  Blindness 244 

Monro,  Harold 

Milk  for  the  Cat 393 

♦Moody,  William  Vaughn 

Gloucester    Moors 378 

The   Menagerie 379 


400 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS   AND   POEMS 


Morris,  William  page 

The  Lady  of  the  Land 130 

*Neihardt,  John  G. 

The  Finding  of  Jamie 219 

Newbolt,  Henry 

Craven    212 

Gillespie    213 

Drake's  Drum 375 

NoYES,  Alfred 

Forty   Singing   Seamen 214 

Kew  in  Lilac-Time 382 

In  the  Cool  of  the  Evening 382 

The  Dawn  of  Peace 396 

*Oppenheim,  James 

Saturday    Night 384. 

O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur 

St.  John   Baptist 346 

Song  of  Palms 348 

Ode   (We  are  the  music-makers)  . . .  348 

Oxenham,  John 

The  Sacrament  of  Fire 395 

Patmore,  Coventry 

The  Toys 351 

♦Pinkney,  Edward  Coate 

A    Health 283 

*PoE,  Edgar  Allan 

The  Raven 100 

Annabel  Lee 306 

Pope,  Alexander 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock 17 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth 

The  Red  Fisherman 67 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball-Room 70 

*PuLSiFER,  Harold  Trowbridge 

The  Conquest  of  the  Air 385 

*Read,  Thomas  Buchanan 

Drifting    327 

*Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth 

A  Little  Song  of  Life 383 

Rossetti,  Christina 

Up-Hill   329 

Song   (When  I  am  dead) 329 

"Hollow-Sounding  and  Mysterious".  357 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 

The  White   Ship 197 

Lost    Days 345 

Lovesight   345 

*Schauffler,  Robert  Haven 

"Scum  o'  the  Earth" 386 

Scott,  Walter 

Lochinvar    50 

Marmion  and  Douglas 51 

Bonny  Dundee 72 

Proud   Maisie 274 


Shakespeare,  William  i'age 

Agincourt    9 

Who  is  Sylvia  ? 227 

Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind ....   227 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 228 

O   Mistress   Mine 228 

Hark,  Hark !   the  Lark 228 

Sonnets: 

When    in    disgrace    with    Fortune 

and   men's  eyes 228 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  si- 
lent thought 229 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in 

me  behold 229 

But  be  contented:  when   that  fell 

arrest 229 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted 

time   229 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 
minds  230 

*Sheldon,  Charles  Monroe 

Jesus   the    Carpenter 388 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 

Ozymandias    2j^ 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind ^w 

The   Cloud 279 

To  a  Skylark 280 

A  Dirge 281 

Shirley,  James 

Song  (The  glories  of  our  blood)  ....   244 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 
Heart-Exchange 227 

*SiLL,  Edward  Rowland  "  "  "• 

Opportunity  «^ .   205 

*Smith.  Lewis  Worthington 
The   English   Tongue 394 

Southey,  Robert 
Bishop  Hatto 42 

♦Stafford,  Wendell  Phillips 

Panama  Hymn 391 

Invocation    392 

♦Stetson,  Charlotte  Perkins 

"A   Man   Must  Live" 367 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 

Requiem   359 

Evensong   373 

Suckling,  Sir  John 

Song  (Why  so  pale  and  wan?)....  240 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 

The  Slaying  of  Urgan 204 

A  Match   341 

A  Ballade   of  Dreamland 350 

Winter  in  Northumberland 351 

March    360 

England,  Queen  of  the  Waves 361 

% 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  POEMS 


401 


*Tabb,  John  B.  page 

The   Butterfly 370 

The   Brook 370 

The  Water-Lily 370 

Phantoms   370 

The  Dandelion 370 

Easter    370 

*Teasdale,  Sara 

The    Star 218 

The  Poor- House 390 

The  Look 393 

Tennyson,  Alfred 

The   Lady   of   Shalott 74 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade..  119 

Gareth    and    Lynette 137 

Lancelot   and   Elaine i6o 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 181 

The  Revenge 191 

The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade.  196 

Break,  Break,  Break 289 

Locksley  Hall 290 

Ulysses   295 

Sir  Galahad 296 

Sweet  and  Low 307 

The  Splendor  Falls 308 

In  Memoriam: 

Strong     Son     of     God,     immortal 

Love    308 

O  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good  308 

Ring  out,  wild   bells,  to  the  wild 

sky  309 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time  309 
Ode   on  the   Death  of  the   Duke   of 

Wellington    309 

Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud 314 

By  an  Evolutionist 361 

Crossing  the  Bar 362 

Tennyson-Turner,  Charles 

The  Steam  Threshing  Machine....  344 
Thompson,  Francis 

Daisy    371 

♦Thompson,  Will  Henry 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 206 

Thomson,  James 

Rule    Britannia 247 

Tynan,  Katharine 

The    Mother 388 

The  Making  of  Birds 389 

♦van  Dyke,  Henry 

An  Angler's  Wish 372 


Watson,  William  i'age 

History    368 

♦Whitman,  Walt 

There  was  a  Child  Went  Forth 320 

The   Grass 321 

0  Captain!   my  Captain! 335 

To  the  Man-of-War  Bird 350 

*Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 123 

The  Barefoot  Boy 325 

The  Eternal  Goodness 344 

In    School-Days 345 

Wolfe,  Charles 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 60 

*W00DBERRY,    GeORGE    EdWARD 

America  and  England 375 

The    Secret 375 

Comrades    384 

Woods,  Margaret  L. 
The   Merry-Go-Round 387 

Wordsworth,  William 

Simon  Lee 41 

Lucy   Gray 43 

Michael   43 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring 261 

Three  Years  She  Grew 262 

She    Dwelt    among    the    Untrodden 

Ways   263 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up 263 

The  Solitary  Reaper 263 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 263 

1  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 264 

Ode   to   Duty 264 

To  a   Sky-Lark 265 

Ode    (Intimations  of  Immortality) . .  265 
Sonnets: 

Composed      upon      Westminster 

Bridge     268 

London,   1802 268 

Written     in     London,     September, 

1802    269 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of 269 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us.  . .  269 

WoTTON,  Sir  Henry 

Character  of  a   Happy  Life 230 

Yeats,  William  Butler 

The  Ballad  of  Moll   Magee 209 

The  Ballad  of  Father  Giiligan 209 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree 367 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Abou  Ben  Adhem  (Hunt) 

After  Construing   (Benson) 

Agincourt    (Drayton)    

Agincourt  (Shakespeare)    

Aladdin    (Lowell)    

Alexander's  Feast    (Dryden) 

Altruism  (Jordan)    

America    (Dobell)    

America  and  England   (Woodberry)  .  . 

American  Flag,  The   (Drake) 

Angler's  Wish,  An   (van  Dyke) 

Annabel  Lee   (Poe) 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The  (Long- 
fellow)      

At  the  End  of  the  Day  (Hovey) 

Ballad  of  East  and  West,  A  (Kipling) 

Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan  (Yeats) 

Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot,  The  (Bu- 
chanan)     

Ballad  of  Moll  Magee,  The  (Yeats).. 

Ballad  of  Sir  John  Franklin  (Boker)  . . 

Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet,  A  (Long- 
fellow)      

Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master,  A 
(Lanier)    

Ballade  of  Dead  Cities  (Gosse) 

Ballade  of  Dreamland,  A  (Swin- 
burne)     

Ballade  of  June    (Henley) 

Barefoot  Boy,  The   (Whittier) 

Battle  of  the  Baltic,  The   (Campbell). 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic    (Howe) 

Belle  of  the  Ball-Room,  The   (Praed). 

Bishop  Hatto   (Southey) 

Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind  (Shake- 
speare)     

Boadicea  (Cowper)   

Bonny  Dundee   (Scott) 

Boston  Hymn    (Emerson) 

Boy  and  the  Angel,  The   (Browning)  . 

Break,  Break,  Break   (Tennyson) 

Brook,  The    (Tabb) 

Building  of  Springfield,  The  (Lindsay) 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The  (Wolfe) 

Butterfly,  The   (Tabb) 

By   an  Evolutionist    (Tennyson) 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The   (Holmes).. 
Character  of  a  Happy  Life   (Wotton)  . 


PAGB  PAGE 

89       Charge    of   the    Heavy    Brigade,    The 

372           (Tennyson)    196 

II       Charge    of    the    Light    Brigade,    The 

9           (Tennyson)    119 

345       Christabel  (Coleridge)    57 

24s       Christmas  Carol,  A    (Herrick) 243 

376       Cloud,  The   (Shelley) 279 

319       Come   into  the   Garden,   Maud    (Ten- 

375           nyson)    314 

274      Comrades   (Hovey)    368 

372       Comrades    (Woodberry)     384 

306      Concord  Hymn    (Emerson) 286 

Conquest  of  the  Air,  The   (Pulsifer)  .  .  385 

303       Corinna's  Going  a-Maying  (Herrick)  .  241 

374       Courtin',  The    (Lowell) 128 

Craven    (Newbolt) 213 

207       Crier,  The    (Drayton) 231 

209       Crossing  the  Bar   (Tennyson) 362 

Cry  of  the  Children,  The   (Browning)  298 
201 

209      Daisy   (Thompson)    371 

121       Dandelion,  The  (Tabb) 370 

Dauber  Rounds  Cape  Horn,  The(Mase- 

193          field)    216 

Dawn  of  Peace,  The  (Noyes) 396 

357       Day,  A   (Dickinson) 363 

353       Days    (Emerson)    325 

"De   Gustibus"    (Browning) 316 

350      Death    (Donne)    236 

359       Death  of  Puck,  The   (Lee-Hamilton)  .  .  210 

324  Deserted  Village,  The   (Goldsmith)..,  251 
52      Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The    (By- 

328          ron)    53 

71       Dirge,  A    (Shelley) 281 

42       Dirge  for  a  Soldier   (Boker) 329 

Dorothy  Q.  (Holmes) 346 

227      Drake's  Drum   (Newbolt) 375 

30      Drifting    (Read)    327 

72 

331       Each  in  his  Own  Tongue  (Carruth)  . .  373 

97      East  London  (Arnold) 344 

289       Easter    (Tabb)    370 

370      Elegy  Written  in    a   Country  Church- 

390          yard    (Gray)    249 

60       Elfin    Skates    (Lee-Hamilton) 210 

370      England,  Queen  of  the  Waves   (Swin- 

361           burne)    361 

English  Flag,  The   (Kipling) 364 

325  English  Tongue,  The   (Smith) 394 

230      Epilogue   (Browning)    362 

402 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


403 


PAGE 

Eternal  Goodness,  The    (Whittier) . . .  344 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The   (Keats) 62 

Evelyn  Hope   (Browning) 315 

Evensong   (Stevenson)    373 

Fairies,   The    (Allingham) 306 

Farevyeil,  A   (Kingsley) 325 

Finding  of  Jamie,  The  (Neihardt)  ....  219 

Forefathers'    Hymn    (Bacon) 285 

Forest  Hymn,  A  (Bryant) 282 

Forsaken  Merman,  The   (Arnold)....  104 

Forty  Singing  Seamen  (Noyes) 214 

Fresh  from  His  Fastnesses  (Henley)..  366 

Gaoler,  The  (Cone) 392 

Gareth  and  Lynette  (Tennyson) 137 

Gillespie    (Newbolt)    213 

Gloucester  Moors    (Moody) 378 

Goethals  (Mackaye)    391 

Grass,  The  (Whitman) 321 

Guilielmus  Rex  (Aldrich) 374 

Hark,  Hark!  the  Lark  (Shakespeare).  228 

Health,  A    (Pinkney) 283 

Heart-Exchange   (Sidney)    227 

Heritage,  The  (Brown) 390 

Herve  Riel    (Browning) 189 

High  Tide  at  Gettysburg,  The  (Thomp- 
son)      206 

Highland  Mary  (Burns) 262 

History   (Watson)    368 

"Hollow-Sounding     and      Mysterious" 

(Rossetti)     357 

Holy   Nativity,  The    (Crashaw) 240 

Home-Thoughts  from  Abroad  (Brown- 
ing)      305 

Home-Thoughts  from  the  Sea  (Brown- 
ing)      305 

Horatius   (Macaulay)    80 

House  of  Christmas,  The  (Chesterton)   394 
How    they    Brought    the    Good    News 

(Browning)    96 

Humble-Bee,  The  (Emerson) 286 

I  Never  Saw  a  Moor  (Dickinson) 363 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud  (Words- 
worth )   264 

If    (Dickinson)    363 

II  Penseroso    (Milton) 234 

In  Memorlam    (Tennyson) 308 

In   School   Days    (Whittier) 345 

In  the  Cool  of  the  Evening  (Noyes)..  382 
Incident  of  the  French  Camp  (Brown- 
ing)      98 

Instans   Tyrannus    (Browning) 120 

Invocation    (Stafford)     392 

Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon  (Landor) .    103 


PAGE 

It  is  not  Growing  Like  a  Tree   (Jon- 
son  )    230 

Italian  in  England,  The  (Browning) . .     98 

Jackdaw,  The  (Cowper) 258 

Jackdaw  of  Rheims,  The   (Barham)..  76 

Jesus  the  Carpenter    (Sheldon) 388 

Johnnie   Cock    (Anon.) 5 

Joy  of  the  Hills,  The   (Markham) 371 

Kew  in  Lilac  Time    (Noyes) 382 

King  Robert  of  Sicily  (Longfellow) ...   125 

King  Solomon   (Meredith) 124 

Kinmont  Willie   (Anon.) 6 

Kubla  Khan    (Coleridge) 270 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Mercl  (Keats)...     61 
Lad,  Have  You  Things  to  Do?  (Hous- 

man)    374 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The  (Tennyson) 74 

Lady  of  the  Land,  The  (Morris) 130 

Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,  The   (Yeats)..   367 

L'Allegro    (Milton)    232 

Lancelot  and  Elaine   (Tennyson) 160 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  The 

(Hemans)    284 

Last  Buccaneer,  The  (Macaulay) 76 

Last  Chantey,  The  (Kipling) 211 

Last  Leaf,  The   (Holmes) 285 

Late  Lark  Twitters,  A  (Henley) 349 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring  (Words- 
worth)       261 

Listeners,  The   (De  la  Mare) 215 

Little    Boy   and   the    Locomotive,   The 

.(Low)     394 

Little  Song  of  Life,  A  (Reese) 383 

Living  Temple,  The   (Holmes) 326 

Lochinvar    ( Scott)    50 

Locksley  Hall    (Tennyson) 290 

London    Snow    (Bridges)     356 

Look,  The   (Teasdale) 393 

Lost  Days    (Rossetti) 345 

Love    (Herbert)    231 

Love  among  the  Ruins  (Browning)...  318 

Lovesight   (Rossetti)    345 

Lucy  Gray   (Wordsworth) 43 

Lycidas   (Milton)    236 

Maidenhood    (Longfellow)    288 

Making  of  Birds,  The   (Tynan) 389 

"Man  Must  Live,  A"   (Stetson) 367 

Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That,  A  (Burns)  260 

March   (Swinburne)    360 

Marching  Along  (Browning) 289 

Marching  Morrows,  The   (Carman)..  369 

Marmion   and  Douglas    (Scott) 51 

Marshes  of  Glynn,  The    (Lanier) 354 

Match,  A    (Swinburne) 341 


404 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Menagerie,  The   (Moody) 379 

Merry-Go-Round,   The    (Woods) 387 

Michael   (Wordsworth)    43 

Milk  for  the  Cat   (Monro) 393 

Milkmaid,  The    (Dobson) 359 

Mimma  Bella    (Lee-Hamilton) 383 

More  Ancient  Mariner,  A   (Carman).  369 

Mother,  The    (Tynan) 388 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up   (Wordsworth)  . .  263 

My  Last  Duchess   (Browning) 86 

My  Lost  Youth    (Longfellow) 322 

My  Strawberry  (Jackson) 347 

Nature  (Longfellow)    349 

Nod   (De  la  Mare) 395 

Nymphidia :  The  Court  of  Faery  (Dray- 
ton)     12 

O  Captain!  My  Captain!   (Whitman).  335 

O  Mistress  Mine   (Shakespeare) 228 

O  Sweet  Content  (Dekker) 227 

O  Youth  whose  Hope  is  High  (Bridges)  356 

Ode:  How  sleep  the  brave   (Collins)..  248 
Ode:  Intimations  of  Immortality 

(Wordsworth)    265 

Ode:     We      are     the     music- makers 

(O'Shaughnessy)    348 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  (Keats) 276 

Ode    on    the    Death    of    the    Duke    of 

Wellington   (Tennyson)    309 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commem- 
oration   (Lowell)    336 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale   (Keats) 275 

Ode  to  Duty   (Wordsworth) 264 

Ode  to  Evening  (Collins) 248 

Ode  to  the  North-East  Wind    (Kings- 
ley)    313 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind   (Shelley) 278 

Old  Clock  on  the   Stairs,  The    (Long- 
fellow)      304 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The  (Lamb) 261 

Old   Ironsides    (Holmes) 285 

On     First     Looking     into     Chapman's 

Homer   (Keats)    271 

On   his   being  Arrived   at  the  Age   of 

Twenty-three    (Milton)    240 

On  his  Blindness   (Milton) 244 

On   Julia's   Clothes    (Herrick) 242 

On   the   Grasshopper    and   the   Cricket 

(Keats)     271 

Opportunity   (Sill)    205 

Our  Country  (Howe) 328 

Ozymandias    (Shelley)    274 

Painter    who    Pleased    Nobody,    The 

(Gay)    29 

Panama  Hymn    (Stafford) 391 

Pardoner's  Tale,  The   (Chaucer) i 


PAGE 

Passing  of  Arthur,  The  (Tennyson)..  181 

Patriot,  The    (Browning) 316 

Peacock,  the  Turkey,   and   the   Goose, 

The    (Gay)    29 

Phantoms    (Tabb)    370 

Pheidippides    (Browning)    194 

Poor-House,  The   (Teasdale) 390 

Prelude   (Cawein)    378 

Present   Crisis,  The    (Lowell) 301 

Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The   (Byron) ....  53 

Prospice    (Browning)    335 

Proud    Maisie    (Scott)     274 

Psalm  of  Life,  A   (Longfellow) 286 

Pulley,  The   (Herbert) 232 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra   (Browning) 332 

Railway  Train,  The    (Dickinson) 363 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The  (Pope) 17 

Raven,   The    (Poe) 100 

Reason  Why,  The   (Locker-Lampson) .  349 

Recessional    (Kipling)    376 

Red  Fisherman,  The    (Praed) 67 

Redbird,  The    (Cawein) 367 

Requiem   (Stevenson)    359 

Revenge,  The    (Tennyson) 191 

Rhodora,  The   (Emerson) 287 

Rhoecus    (Lowell)    87 

Rime   of  the   Ancient  Mariner    (Cole- 
ridge)   33 

Rime  of  the  Duchess  May  (Browning)  90 

Robert  of  Lincoln    (Bryant) 323 

Robin,   The    (Dickinson) 364 

Rondeau    (Hunt)    300 

Rugby  Chapel    (Arnold) 342 

Rule  Britannia   (Thomson) 247 

Sacrament  of  Fire,  The   (Oxenham)..   395 

St.  John  Baptist  (O'Shaughnessy) 346 

Saturday  Night   (Oppenheim) 384 

Say   Not   the    Struggle   Nought  Avail- 

eth   ( Clough )    329 

School-Days    (Bridges)     368 

Scots  Wha  Hae   (Burns) 260 

"Scum  o'  the  Earth"   (Schauffler) 386 

Sea  Fever  (Masefield) 381 

Secret,  The   (Woodberry) 375 

Self-Dependence    (Arnold)    313 

Shakespeare    (Arnold)    306 

She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways 

(Wordsworth)    263 

She  Walks  in  Beauty  (Byron) 270 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight  (Words- 
worth )    263 

Shepherd     of     King     Admetus,     The 

(Lowell)     87 

Silent      Tower      of      Bottreau,      The 

(Hawker)    73 

Simon  Lee   (Wordsworth) 41 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 


405 


PAGE 

Sir  Galahad  (Tennyson)   296 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  (Longfellow)..   104 

Sir  Patrick  Spence    (Anon.) 4 

Skeleton  in  Armor,  The  (Longfellow) .     78 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride   (Whittier) 123 

Slaying  of  Urgan,  The  (Swinburne)..  204 

Snow-Storm,  The   (Emerson) 287 

Sohrab  and  Rustum   (Arnold) 106 

Solitary  Reaper,  The  (Wordsworth) . .  263 

Sometimes   (Jones)    382 

Son  of  God  Goes  Forth  to  War,  The 

(Heber)     284 

Song   (Beddoes)    307 

Song:  When  I  am  dead  (Rossetti) ....   329 
Song:  The  glories  of  our  blood   (Shir- 
ley)      244 

Song:  Why  so  pale  and  wan    (Suck- 
ling)      240 

Song  for  St,  Cecilia's  Day   (Dryden) .   244 

Song  of  Palms  (O'Shaughnessy) 348 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The  (Hood) 297 

Song  of  To-day  (Lathbury) 357 

Songs  of  Seven   (Ingelow) 330 

Sonnet:     But     be     contented     (Shake- 
speare )    230 

Sonnet:    Composed    upon   Westminster 

Bridge    (Wordsworth)    269 

Sonnet:    It    is    not    to    be    thought    of 

(Wordsworth)     269 

Sonnet:   Let   me   not   to   the   marriage 

(Shakespeare)     230 

Sonnet:  London,  1802  (Wordsworth)..  265 
Sonnet:  Since  there's   no  help    (Dray- 
ton)      231 

Sonnet:   That    time    of   year    (Shake- 
speare)      229 

Sonnet:  When  in  disgrace  with  For- 
tune  (Shakespeare)    228 

Sonnet:  When  in  the  chronicles  (Shake- 
speare)       229 

Sonnet:  When  to  the  sessions   (Shake- 
speare)      229 

Sonnet:  Written  in  London,  September, 

1802    (Wordsworth)    269 

Spacious    Firmament    on    High,    The 

(Addison)    247 

Splendor  Falls,  The  (Tennyson) 308 

Star,  The  (Teasdale)    218 

Steam  Threshing  Machine,  The  (Ten- 
nyson)        344 

Sun-Day  Hymn,  A  (Holmes) 326 

Sweet  and  Low  (Tennyson) 307 

Tam  o'Shanter  (Burns) 31 

Thanatopsis    (Bryant)    272 

Thanksgiving  to   God   for   his  House, 

A    (Herrick)    242 


PAGE 

There  was  a  Child  Went  Forth  (Whit- 
man)      320 

Three  Years  She  Grew  (Wordsworth)  262 

Tiger,  The   (Blake)    260 

To  a  Greek  Bootblack  (Firkins) 382 

To  a  Louse  (Burns) 258 

To  a  Mouse   (Burns) 259 

To  a  Skylark   (Shelley) 280 

To  a  Skylark   (Wordsworth) 265 

To  a  Waterfowl   (Bryant) 273 

To  Althea  from  Prison  (Lovelace) ....  243 
To   an   Athlete   Dying  Young    (Hous- 

man)    373 

To  Autumn  (Keats) 277 

To  Celia    (Jonson) 230 

To  Daffodils   (Herrick) 242 

To   Lucasta,   on   Going   to   the   Wars 

(Lovelace)    243 

To  the  Dandelion   (Lowell) 303 

To   the   Grasshopper   and   the   Cricket 

(Hunt)     272 

To  the  Man-of-War  Bird   (Whitman)  350 

Toys,   The    (Patmore) 351 

Trees   (Kilmer)    393 

Twa  Sisters,  The   (Anon.) 8 

Two  Taverns   (Markham) 378 

Two  Voyagers    (Dickinson) 364 

Ultima  Veritas   (Gladden) 353 

Ulysses   (Tennyson)    295 

Unconquered  Air,  The   (Coates) 385 

Under   the    Greenwood   Tree    (Shake- 
speare )     228 

Unguarded  Gates   (Aldrich) 366 

Unmanifest   Destiny    (Hovey) 377 

Up    at    a    Villa — Down    in    the    City 

(Browning)     317 

Up-Hill    (Rossetti)    329 

Virtue   (Herbert)    231 

Water-Lily,  The  (Tabb) 370 

Way  to  Arcady,  The    (Bunner) 358 

When  Burbage  Played   (Dobson) 363 

When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose  (Dobson)  351 
When  the  Great  Gray  Ships  Come  In 

(Carryl)    377 

White  Ship,  The   (Rossetti) 197 

Who  is  Sylvia?   (Shakespeare) 227 

Who  Robbed  the  Woods?   (Dickinson)   364 
Winter     in     Northumberland      (Swin- 
burne)       351 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  (Campbell) .  269 
Year's  at  the  Spring,  The  (Browning)  288 
Young  and  Old    (Kingsley) 330 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


A  child  said,  What  is  the  grass? 321 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field....  206 

A  fire-mist   and   a   planet 373 

A  fleet  with  flags  arrayed 193 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies  349 

A  man  must  live !    We  justify 367 

A  man  went  down  to  Panama 391 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town 378 

A  white  star  born  in  the  evening  glow  218 
Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  in- 
crease!)       89 

Across  the  fields  of  yesterday 382 

Across  the  grass  I  see  her  pass 359 

Across    the    seas    of    Wonderland    to 

Magadore   we    plodded    214 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  fiU'd  the 

east    106 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the 

sky    287 

Are  ye  the  ghosts  of  fallen  leaves?...  370 
Art   thou    poor,   yet   hast   thou   golden 

slumbers  ?    227 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er  349 

Ask  why  I  love  the  roses  fair 349 

At   Flores   in   the   Azores   Sir  Richard 

Grenville    lay    191 

At  the  gate  of  the  West  I  stand 386 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the 

sleep-time    362 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down!...  285 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 315 

Behold  her  single  in  the  field 263 

Big    iron    horse    with    lifted    head....   394 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man 324 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 227 

Break,  break,  break  289 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee    286 

Bury  the  Great  Duke   309 

But  be  contented:  when  that  fell  arrest  229 
But  Tristram  by  dense  hills  and  deep- 
ening vales    204 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told.  .    197 
By   the    rude   bridge    that    arched    the 
flood  286 

Close  his  eyes;  his  work  is  done! 329 

Coldly,  sadly  descends   342 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away 104 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud 314 

Come  round  me,  little  children 209 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little 290 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night. . . .   368 
Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time...   309 

Darkly,  as  by  some  gloomed  mirror 
glassed    368 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic 
Days    325 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  be- 
side the  way  303 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have 
called  thee    236 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my 
brothers    298 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the 
way  ?    329 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock,  an'  a  thou- 
sand miles  away 375 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 230 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more 

fair    268 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable...   160 
England,   queen   of   the   waves   whose 
green   inviolate   girdle   enrings   thee 

round    361 

Ere     frost-flower     and     snow-blossom 

faded   and   fell    360 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 242 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 11 

Fear   death? — to   feel   the   fog   in    my 

throat    335 

First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed, 

river  and   rock!    I94 

Flush  with  the  pond  the  lurid  furnace 

burned    344 

Fresh  from  his  fastnesses   366 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  har- 
mony      244 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame ! 241 

Glad  that  I  live  am  1 383 

Glooms     of    the     live-oaks,     beautiful 

braided    and   woven    354 

Gloomy  night  embraced  the  place....  240 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time 382 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old....  376 


406 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


407 


PAGE 

God   made   Him  birds   in   a   pleasant 

humor    389 

God  made  sech  nights,  all  white   an' 

still    128 

God  sends  his  teachers  into  every  age  87 

Good   folk,  for  gold   or   hire 231 

Grandmother's    mother:    her     age,    I 

guess    346 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass  272 

Grow  old  along  with  me ! 332 

Ha!  whaur  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie?  258 
Had    I    but    plenty    of    money,    money 

enough  and  to  spare  317 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 119 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 280 

Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate 

sings    228 

He  flies  with  flirt  and  fluting 367 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy   232 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys   234 

Here  is  eternal  spring:  for  you 368 

Hope  went  by  and  Peace  went  by 390 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught.  . . .  230 
How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest  248 
How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief 

of  youth   240 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting 

flowers    279 

I  fear  that  Puck  is  dead, — it  is  so  long  210 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 283 

I    have    had    playmates,    I    have    had 

companions    261 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 261 

I  hid  my  heart  in  a  nest  of  flowers...   350 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 3 

I  like  to  see  it  lap  the  miles 363 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land  274 

I  must  go  down  to  the  sea  again 381 

I  never  saw  a  moor 363 

I  remember  how  I  lay 378 

I  ride  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride...   371 

I  saw  him  once  before 285 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and 

he    96 

I   think  he   had  not  heard   of  the  far 

towns  346 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 393 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 264 

I  will   arise   and  go  now,  and   go  to 

Innisfree   367 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song  248 
If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your 

steps    43 

If  I  can  stop  one  heart  from  breaking.   363 

If  I  could  hold  within  my  hand 388 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is 341 


PAGE 

I'll  tell  you  how  the  sun  rose 363 

In  a  dusk  and  scant  retreat 382 

In   beauty  faults  conspicuous  grow...  29 
In  Flanders  once  there  dwelt  a  com- 
pany    I 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our 

solitudes    287 

In  the  bitter  waves  of  woe 353 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening 382 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan 41 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 270 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went 357 

Iphigeneia,  when  she  heard  her  doom.  103 
"Is    there    anybody    there?"    said    the 

Traveller    215 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 260 

It  happened  once,  some  men  of  Italy. .  130 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner 33 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 230 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood  269 

It  is  the  mountain  to  the  sea 370 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king 295 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago. . .  306 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way 316 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 300 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men 207 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King. . .  289 
King  Solomon   stood,  in  his  crown  of 

gold    124 

Kneel  always  when  you  light  a  fire!. .  395 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 80 

Leafless,  stemless,  floating  flower 370 

Let   me    not   to   the   marriage   of   true 

minds    230 

Let  not  our  town  be  large 390 

Like  a  meteor,  large  and  bright 370 

Lilacs  glow,   and   jasmines  climb 359 

Lo,   through   the   open  window   of  the 

room 383 

Lord  Cassar,  when  you  sternly  wrote..  372 

Lord  of  all  being!  throned  afar 326 

Lord,  thou  hast  given   me   a  cell 242 

Love   bade   me   welcome ;  yet  my  soul 

drew  back   231 

Maiden!  with  the  meek  brown  eyes..  288 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed..  323 

Merry-go-round  is  a-turning,  turning.  387 

Mighty,  luminous,  and  calm 348 

Milton!     Thou   should'st  be   living  at 

this  hour  268 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the 

coming  of  the  Lord 328 

Morning,  evening,  noon,  and  night...  97 


408 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

Much  have  I  travel'd  in  the  realms  of 

gold    271 

My   fairest  child,  I   have  no   song   to 

give  you   325 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of 

men   296 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years.  .     53 
My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numb- 
ness  pains    275 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold....  263 
My     little      Son,     who     looked     from 

thoughtful  eyes  351 

My  soul  to-day 327 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart 227 

Nightingales  warble   about   it 375 

No  matter  what  my  birth  may  be 390 

Nobly,  nobly.  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the 

Northwest  died   away 305 

Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us..  319 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral 

note 60 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day.  .  51 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone 326 

Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on 

fire    9 

Now  gird  thee  well  for  courage 369 

O  Captain!   my  Captain!   our  fearful 

trip    is   done    335 

O   friend !    I   know  not   which  way  I 

must    look    269 

O  God,  beneath  thy  guiding  hand 285 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  false  Sa- 

kelde?    6 

O  marvel,  fruit  of  fruits,  I  pause 347 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roam- 
ing ?    228 

O  Thou  whose  equal  purpose  runs...  392 
O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms. .  6i 
"O,  whither  sail  you.  Sir  John  Frank- 
lin?"   121 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Au- 
tumn's being 278 

O,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good...  308 

O  youth  whose  hope  is  high 356 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time  123 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 52 

Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less. . .  120 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 43 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town..  322 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 305 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 358 

Oh !  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of 

the   west    50 

Old  Adam,  the  carrion  crew 307 

Old  Chaucer  doth  of  Thopas  tell 12 


FAOE 

Once   upon   a   midnight   dreary 100 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 74 

On  primal  rocks  she  wrote  her  name..   328 
On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen 

hundred  ninety-two   189 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art 

free    306 

Others  endure   Man's   rule:  he   there- 
fore   deems    385 

Outside  the  garden 351 

Over  the  turret,  shut  in  his  iron-clad 
tower     212 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood 274 

Riding  at  dawn,  riding  alone 213 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. .   309 
Robert  of  Sicily,  brother  of  Pope  Ur- 
bane      125 

Rough  wind,  that  moanest  loud 281 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was!  62 

Say,  lad,  have  you  things  to  do? 374 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth..  329 

Scots,  wha  hae   wi'  Wallace   bled....  260 
Season  of  mists   and   mellow  fruitful- 

ness  277 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways  263 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night...  270 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 263 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss 

and  part  231 

Sing  paeans  over  the  Past! 357 

So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morn- 
ing came    216 

So  very  like  a  painter  drew 29 

Softly  along  the  road  of  evening 395 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street  304 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 104 

Speak!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest! 78 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God!. .  264 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road  345 

Strephon  kissed  me  in  the  spring 393 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love...  308 

Sunset  and  evening  star 362 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low 307 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the 

plain   251 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright.  231 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers....  286 

Tell  me  not.  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 243 

Thank  God  my  brain  is  not  inclined 

to   cut    379 

That   story  which   the   bold   Sir   Bedi- 

vere    181 

That  second  time  they  hunted  me 98 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


409 


PAGE 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me 

behold    229 

That's  my  last  duchess  painted  on  the 

wall 86 

The  Abbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book  67 
The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf 

on  the  fold  53 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high....  284 
The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hun- 
dred, the  Heavy  Brigade! 196 

The  country  of  the  Crows 219 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 

day    249 

The  embers  of  the  day  are  red 373 

The  folk  who  lived  in  Shakespeare's 

day 374 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state...   244 

"The  God  of  things  as  they  are" 376 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples..  282 
The    Jackdaw    sat    on    the    Cardinal's 

chair!    76 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  town  ...  4 
The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent.  137 
The     lights    of    Saturday    night    beat 

golden    384 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to 

the  soul  of  a  man 361 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day.  .   345 

The  old  priest  Peter  Gilligan 209 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead....  271 

The  robin  is  the  one 364 

The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war...   284 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high 247 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls....  308 
The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so 

wet  42 

The  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer 369 

The  time  you  won  your  town  the  race.  373 
The    winds    were    yelling,    the    waves 

were  swelling   76 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 331 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us!   late 

and  soon   269 

The  year's  at  the  spring 288 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth. . .  87 
There  fared  a  mother  driven  forth...   394 

There  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat 258 

There  is  no  escape  by  the  river 374 

There  is  no  height,  no  depth,  that  could 

set  us  apart   388 

There  is  no  rhyme  that  is  half  so  sweet  378 

There  was  a  child  went  forth 320 

There    was    a    time    when    meadow, 

grove,  and  stream   265 

There  was  twa  sisters  in  a  bowr 8 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and 

clover    330 

There's  no  replying 357 


PAGE 

They  wheeled  me  up  the  snow-cleared 
gardenway   210 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a 
dream    205 

This  is  the  Arsenal,  From  floor  to 
ceiling 303 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets 
feign 325 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quiet- 
ness       276 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon 
the  storm    350 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and 
shower 262 

Thus  said  the  Lord  in  the  Vault  above 
the   Cherubim    211 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 260 

Tintadgel  bells   ring  o'er  the  tide....     73 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle 
clock  57 

To  be  free,  to  be  alone 392 

To  eastward  ringing,  to  westward 
singing,  o'er  mapless  miles  of  sea..   377 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature 
holds   272 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Cla- 
ver'se  who  spoke    72 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far..   377 

'Twas  a  Duke's  fair  orphan  girl 90 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia 
won    245 

'Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  over- 
head       344 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 201 

Two  butterflies  went  out  at  noon 364 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 228 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 359 

Up  Johnnie  rose  in  a  May  morning. .  .        5 

Up  the  airy  mountain 306 

Up  with  me!  up  with  me  into  the 
clouds!    265 

We  are  the  music-makers 348 

We  join  to-day  the  East  and  West.  .  .   371 

Weak-winged  is  song 336 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking..   313 
Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie.   259 

Welcome,   wild   North-easter!    313 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes 

springs     17 

What  is  the  strength  of  England,  and 

her  pride    375 

What  sweeter  music  can  we  bring. .  . .   243 
When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom....   301 
When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad....   330 
When   Britain   first   at   Heaven's  com- 
mand       247 


410 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


FAGB 

When  Burbage  played,  the  stage  was 

bare   363 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street  31 
When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one?  345 
When    Freedom    from    her    mountain 

height   274 

When  God  at  first  made  Man 232 

When  I   am  dead,  my  dearest 329 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent  244 

When  I  saw  you  last.  Rose     351 

When  I  was  a  beggarly  boy 345 

When   in   disgrace   with   Fortune   and 

men's  eyes   228 

When  in  the  chronicles  of  wasted  time  229 
When  Love  with  unconfined  wings...  243 
When  men  were   all  asleep  the  snow 

came   flying    356 

When  the  British  warrior  queen 30 

Whence,  O  fragrant  form  of  light 370 

Where   the   quiet-colored   end   of  eve- 
ning  smiles    318 

When  the  tea  is  brought  at  five  o'clock  393 
When  to  the   sessions  of  sweet  silent 

thought    229 

When  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square. . .   242 

Whenas   in   silk   my  Julia   goes 242 

Where  are  the  cities  of  the  plain?....   353 


PAGE 

Where  are  the  friends  that  I  knew  in 

my  Maying   384 

Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown  371 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew 273 

Who  is  Sylvia?     What  is  she 227 

Who  robbed  the  woods 364 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover. .  . .  240 
Wide  open  and  unguarded   stand  our 

gates   366 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 297 

Winds  of  the  World,  give  answer...  364 

With  a  thunder-driven  heart 385 

With  locks  of  gold  to-day 370 

Words  that  have   tumbled  and  tossed 

from  the  Avon  and  Clyde 394 

Ye    banks,    and    braes,    and    streams 

around    262 

Ye  mariners  of  England 269 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams.  71 
Yes — "on     our     brows     we     feel     the 

breath" —    396 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once 

more    236 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratis- 

bon   98 

Your   ghost  will  walk,  you   lover   of 

trees    36 


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